My Brother's Keeper
by Luck Kazajian
Summary: Nate wants to go home. Sam wants to find Avery's treasure. Things are coming to a head and the infamous Brothers Drake aren't getting along. So Sam concocts a brilliant plan to fix their crumbling relationship and solidify their claim to the Drake bloodline. He even manages to convince Nate to go along with it. The only thing he doesn't plan for are the consequences.
1. Why Can't We Just Go Home?

**I love Uncharted and have played each game at least twice, but there's one gap in the story that the games don't explain - how Nathan ends up alone in Cartagena without Sam. We see the two brothers run off together from St. Francis' Boys Home, but the next time we see Nate, it's a few years later and he's alone. From the way he interacts with Sully when they meet, I imagine whatever split him and Sam up was something that left Nate in a tough spot. Most all the fanfiction I've read puts Sam in jail at this point, which is a logical explanation for his absence. (Maybe I just missed something canon that hints at this?) Either way, it's not quite what I imagine happened, so this is my version of how Nate got stranded in Cartagena. **

**Also, I don't usually name my chapters, but it just kinda fit this story, so I gave it a go ;)**

* * *

**Chapter One: Why Can't We Just Go Home?**

Nate stared out the taxi window at the passing scenery and scowled. He put his chin in his hand and made a face at his freckled reflection. He needed a haircut. Nate tugged his hair out of his eyes impatiently. He supposed he ought to be impressed with the scenery flashing by his window, but he'd seen it all before - fields, vineyards, stucco houses in picturesque scenery, sea birds and bright flowers in late summer's harsh colors. Most people only dreamed of seeing other countries. Nate just dreamed of staying put in one.

Over the past three years, he and Sam and traveled, weaseled, and snuck their way all across Europe. Nate had been in Glasgow and Dublin and had slipped over the corner of Sweden. He'd seen London and Paris and Venice. He'd even been in a jail cell in Germany over something Sam labeled as a "big mistake." He and Sam and been in and out of hotels, apartments, convents, and houses, living out of suitcases and borrowed clothes. In fact, the red t-shirt Nate wore now was Sam's. He'd lost his last clean shirt in Barcelona when Sam suddenly burst into their hotel room, grabbed as many possessions as he could, shoved a leather satchel in Nate's hands, and dragged him out the door.

Sam had taken Nate straight to an airport where they promptly boarded a plane headed for South America. Nate had no idea where Sam got the money for plane tickets but, by some miracle, they made it through security and onto the plane, where they had remained until touching down somewhere in Columbia. After that, Sam bargained the taxi fee out of a kind old lady with a crazy lie about a dead Aunt in Cartagena.

"We're out of money again, aren't we?" Nate muttered under his breath as they climbed into the backseat of the taxi.

"Of court not!" Sam replied indignantly. "I'm just saving for a hotel in Cartagena."

"And why are we going to Cartagena, exactly?" Nate asked.

"You'll see when we get there, kiddo," Sam smiled.

Nate just rolled his eyes and stared out the window. He wasn't in the mood for Sam's smile right now. And he was a little too old to be called 'kiddo' anymore.

"Aw, c'mon, Nathan. Give your brother a smile, hey?" Sam leaned forward in his seat, trying to peer into Nate's face. Nate gave his brother a brief sowl and turned back to the window.

"What's wrong, little brother? Don't like the scenery?" Sam spread his hands.

Nate turned from the window. "You know full well that's not what's wrong."

Sam's smile slipped. "What do you mean?"

Nate frowned. "I wish you'd stop pretending everything is ok and just level with me. I'm not a kid anymore, Sam. I can see what's happening. And country-hopping just isn't fun anymore. Maybe I believed you when I was twelve, but you're not fooling me now."

"Country hopping?"

"You know what I mean. I want a home. I want to go to school like a normal kid. I want friends."

"Aren't we friends, Nathan?" Sam blinked suddenly, the kind of blink that meant he was trying to hide emotions.

"Yeah," Nate agreed. "But I want other friends."

Sam frowned. "Are you trying to say I'm not enough? Are you saying you don't appreciate everything I've done for you?"

Nate paused. Up until now, he'd always answered that question by reassuring Sam that of course he was enough. He'd always be enough. But now, he wasn't so sure.

"Maybe I am, Sam," he finally answered.

"But, Nathan, we're family. We're the Brothers Drake."

"I'm not denying that."

"Then what are you saying?" Sam's voice was suddenly chilly.

Nate sighed. "Look. All I'm trying to say is, maybe it's time for the Brothers Drake to find a home. Maybe it's time we got real jobs and paid rent and went to school and didn't hide behind the nearest dumpster when the authorities walk by."

"What? And give up our search for Avery's treasure?"

"Who says we have to give it up?" Nate spread his hands. "Maybe it's best to lay it aside for now though and pick up the trail again when we have better resources."

"Nate," Sam gave his brother one of those patronizing smiles when he was warming up to a topic Nate didn't understand. "If we give up now, the trail might go cold again." Sam patted his backpack where he stashed their mother's notebook. "Besides, we have the best resource of them all. We have all of mother's clues and information - probably more than any treasure hunter out there."

"Yeah, but they have a lot more money."

"What's money got to do with it?" Sam was indignant.

"Everything!" Nate insisted. "We can't keep hoping to run into crazy old ladies kind enough to give us taxi fare, Sam. I've had enough of the sneaking around, stealing, and lying. Avery's treasure has been hidden for over 200 years. I don't think another few years is going to make a difference. We can hunt for Mom's treasure when we're older, but for now I just want to settle down and actually have a life."

Nate raised his voice as he talked and the taxi driver gave the boys a backward glance in his mirror. At least he didn't speak English, Nate sighed. Because if he did, he and Sam were going to get arrested as soon as the taxi stopped, going on about treasure and pirates like they were.

Sam frowned at his little brother, but kept his tone low. "Is this not exciting to you? Do you not want to find Avery's treasure? Just imagine! We'd be famous. We'd be rich beyond your wildest dreams. Then we can buy a house and settle down wherever we want. Does Mom's work mean nothing to you, Nathan?"

Nate flinched as if Sam struck him. He blinked. "It means everything to me." He pushed words past the lump in his throat. "It's all we have left of Mom. I just don't think she'd want us to throw our lives away chasing a treasure that she didn't find either."

"Mom didn't find the treasure because _she died_," Sam's tone was final. "Not because she didn't have money. So what if we're not rich? We've got the guts and the determination to succeed. At least, I do. If you - "

"You're guilt tripping me, Sam," Nate interrupted.

Sam looked over at his little brother and stopped talking. Nate tried to scrutinize Sam's face for his feelings, but lately Sam had become more and more closed. Nate saw frustration and indecision but what chilled him to the bone was a lack of affection. Sam seemed more and more obsessed with finding Avery's treasure and less and less concerned about what he dragged Nate through to get it. Especially now that Nate was old enough to take care of himself. Sam had begun to look at Nate more as an associate than a brother and it scared Nate. Nate shivered and drew his knees up to his chest, resting his heels on the edge of the seat. He leaned his head against the window just as a great drop of rain splattered the glass. The sky had gone cold and gray during his conversation with Sam and Nate let it cry the tears he felt lurking but couldn't muster for himself.

"Nathan."

This time Nate didn't look over at Sam but kept his gaze decidedly on the window. He heard Sam sigh. But he didn't hear the reassurance he so desperately longed for.

The taxi stopped sometime later in what must've been Cartagena. It was dusk outside and still raining. Nate shook himself awake to the sound of Sam arguing with the taxi driver in halting Spanish. Nate gathered the tattered backpack at his feet. It sounded like the kind lady's cash donation for a taxi fare had just run out and the driver wasn't going any further without more payment. To Nate's chagrin, his brother's loud arguments only proved his earlier suspicion - they were out of money.

Nate immediately scouted the area they were in for a place to stay. Or at least get out of the rain. They seemed to be outside Cartagena proper, in a little neighborhood of shops and homes, but nothing that looked like a place to stay. A few people ran across the muddy streets, holding umbrellas and coats over their heads, hurrying through the rain. Hurrying home, most likely. Nate felt an empty pang in his chest. He had no home to hurry to.

He felt a hand on his arm and realized Sam was talking to him "...vaminos, hermanito. Let's ditch this _pendejo_."

Nate scowled at Sam. While Sam's spanish was rough, he had no problem with name-calling, no matter the language.

The taxi driver spat something equally rude at Sam as the boys got out of the taxi. He sped off as soon as Nate shut the door, splattering the younger boy with muddy water. Nate shouted as the water soaked his jeans, then glared up at Sam, who had remained relatively dry. Sam, at least, had the foresight to look apologetic as the brothers ran under cover of a nearby store awning.

"Now I'm all wet," Nate complained.

"You would've been soon enough anyway." Sam shook water from his hair.

"I'd rather not be wet at all," Nate muttered.

Sam didn't bother to answer.

The brothers had ducked under the awning of a small corner grocery, sharing the space with displays of fruit and vegetables. Nate eyed a basket of apples hungrily. Sam noticed and reached out a casual hand for one, but Nate grabbed his arm.

"Don't."

Sam frowned.

"We're in enough trouble as it is. We don't want more."

"You worry to much, little brother." But Sam put his hand in his pocket and left the apples alone.

Beside him, Nate visibly relaxed. A bike suddenly whizzed by in front of the store, splattering both Sam and Nate with muddy water. They could only watch with indignant shouts as the culprit sped away oblivious.

"Well, there's no use standing around out here," Sam said, looking down with disgust at his mud-spattered shoes. "Let's see what we find inside, yeah?"

Despite the warmth of the evening, Nate could only shiver and agree.

Inside the store was slightly cooler than outside and lined with various displays of local food. It was a modest shop, selling mostly produce and other locally prepared foods and knick-knacks. There were several people inside, some shopping, but many like Nate and Sam who ducked inside to wait out the rain. A man with greying hair and a large moustache waited on customers behind the counter. He gave Nate and Sam a precautionary glare when they walked in but went back to serving his customers when Sam mustered a grin and a wave for him.

Nate kept a wary eye on the man while Sam began his customary routine of asking the locals for a place to stay. A cheap place. In fact, free would be best. Nate followed Sam doggedly. Although he spoke better Spanish than Sam, he didn't bother to help or correct his older brother, who was beginning to draw a lot of attention. After the fifth or sixth attempt with no luck, Sam was noticeably discouraged. Still, Nate didn't say anything.

"You could at least look pitiful or something, get somebody to feel sorry for us," Sam muttered after attempting light conversation with Nate to no effect. Nate rolled his eyes.

"You're right. You already look pitiful enough." Sam said it to spite him, but Nate knew it wasn't far from the truth. His clothes were too big for him, his shoes were worn out, he needed a haircut, some sleep, and a good meal. Nate knew he probably didn't look like more than a street kid and really, except for Sam, that's all he was. And, if he were honest, Sam didn't look much better. His clothes fit, but the knees of his jeans were ripped and he had a fading black eye from some altercation back in Barcelona. But while Nate was still young enough to look like a hapless waif in need of a good meal, Sam's hollow eyes and lean frame made him look like a hungry wolf. While passerby spared pitying glances for Nate, they gave Sam a wide berth with firm hands on their pockets and purses.

"Looks like we're sleeping in the gutter again," Nate muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Sam gave him an annoyed glare, but didn't answer. Nate suspected it was because he was right and Sam didn't want to admit it. The brothers wandered back to the front of the store and tucked themselves into a corner between two shelves to wait out the rain. Sam leaned against the wall and let his head rest against the window overlooking the street.

For the first time, Nate noticed how young and tired Sam looked. Sam always put on a front, but Nate knew running around the world was just as tiring to Sam as it was him. The only difference was that Sam was doing it to himself instead of being dragged in someone else's wake.

Nate slid down the wall to rest at Sam's feet, his backpack an awkward cushion against his back. He scrubbed at his face. What were he and Sam thinking anyway? Sam was barely twenty and Nate only fifteen. It was a miracle they hadn't been hauled in and delivered to some orphanage yet. Well, Sam was exempt from that, but Nate still faced the haunting thought of being turned back over to the nuns at St. Francis' Boys Home. Sometimes he thought maybe that would be a better alternative to sneaking through customs, sleeping in alleyways, and begging food from the back of sleazy bars. So what if he wasn't fond of the nuns? At least he had a bed, decent clothes, and he knew when his next meal was coming.

Somehow he thought this traveling thing would be more glamorous. But after three years of running around the world, surviving by the skin of their teeth, and being, in Nate's opinion, no closer to finding Avery's treasure or any clue to it, he was ready to give up and try again later after he found a job or went to school. Or both.

Beside him, Sam suddenly stiffened. Nate looked up to see his brother staring out the window, a grim expression on his face.

"What is it?" Nate asked.

Sam looked down. "Police."

Nate felt his breath catch in his throat and he instinctively began to clamber to his feet. But Sam leaned down and put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Relax, little brother. We're not doing anything wrong."

Nate looked indecisive. "Then why'd you get all concerned?"

Sam got that look on his face that meant he was about to deny Nate's claim.

"Don't lie to me," Nate said.

Sam shut his mouth, then faked a smile and shrugged. "Habit, I guess," he said.

Nate didn't entirely buy it, but he sat back down as the door to the store opened and a man in blue pressed trousers and a matching blue buttoned shirt walked in. If there was one thing around the world that didn't change, it was the police, Nate thought glumly. They all looked remarkably similar across countries. Then again, that made them easier to spot, which, Nate supposed, he should chalk up as one good thing in he and Sam's upside-down life.

The policeman walked up to the counter and greeted the man with the moustache. They had a quick conversation and moustache gestured to Sam and Nate.

"Uh-oh," Nate murmured.

Sam straightened up.

The policeman made a beeline for the boys.

"_Hola, jóvenes_," he greeted them. "¿_Que estan haciendo aqu__i_?"

"¿_Yo hablo Inglés_?" Sam tried hopefully.

The policeman shook his head. "¿_Españo_l?" he asked Sam.

"_Si_," Sam replied resignedly.

Nate didn't know if the policeman was hiding his English, or if he really didn't speak it, but either way, Sam couldn't use his usual tactics of negotiation in Spanish. He wasn't fluent enough to weasel his way out of everything. Nate was, but he'd given up trying to be Sam's mouthpiece months ago.

"¿_Ustedes son Americanos, si_?"

"_Si, señor_."

"What brings you to Cartagena?"

"We're - uh - travelers," Sam began, tripping over the longer explanation. "And we - uh - came to visit family in Columbia, you know, on the other side." Sam gestured vaguely. "Our Aunt passed away there and we - uh - thought we'd come to Cartagena to...sightsee...before we go home."

"The two of you are traveling alone?" the policeman asked.

"Yes, sir. Our parents couldn't make the trip because of work so they sent me and my little brother here to pay our respects."

"¿_Cuantos años tienes, hijo_?"

"_Veinte_." Sam stood up a little straighter.

"¿_Y tu hermano_?" the policeman gestured at Nate.

"_Quince_," Sam said carefully.

_At least he got our ages right,_ Nate thought.

"_Habla él Español_?" the policeman looked down at Nate. Nate instinctively took a breath to reply, but Sam beat him to it.

"No, _señor_. He hasn't learned it in school yet."

Nate gave Sam a sharp look.

The policeman studied Nate for a long moment. Nate tried to look innocent and unassuming and ignorant of what was being said about him.

"And you have your passports on you?" the policeman asked.

Nate almost moved to retrieve his passport from his backpack before he realized he wasn't supposed to know what the policeman said. "_Por supuesto_," Sam nodded and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a worn passport and handed it over.

"Your passport, little brother," he prompted Nate in English.

Nate nodded and shrugged off his backpack. He pulled his tattered passport from an inner pocket and offered the document to the policeman.

The policeman studied the two little books for a long moment. Nate felt his heart beat hard in his chest. While there was nothing illegal about the passports themselves, the paperwork to get Nate's had been forged, since a parent couldn't sign for him to get one. Everytime he handed his passport over, he felt like someone would find out somehow and he'd get caught. But the policeman merely grunted and handed the passports back to the boys. Nate busied himself with tucking it back into his backpack so the policeman wouldn't see his hands shake.

"_Ven conmigo, j__ó__venes_," the policeman said.

Sam stiffened, but he nodded. "_Si, señor_," he said. "C'mon, Nathan, let's go."

Nate stood up, looking uncertain, shouldering his backpack.

The policeman gave them a smile. "_No voy a herirte. Venga._"

Sam's return smile wasn't very convincing, but then again, Nate had come to learn his brother's tells. Hopefully the policeman wasn't picking up the nervous energy pouring off Sam. He motioned for the boys to follow him.

Nate and Sam gave each other a long look. Then Sam shrugged and the two brothers followed the policeman out into the rainy evening.

* * *

**Since they do speak Spanish in Cartagena, I tried to sprinkle some throughout the story. I'm not a native Spanish speaker and it's been a while since I studied it in school, so let me know if you find any glaring mistakes (unless it's Sam's dialogue, in which case, he's not fluent and makes some mistakes). I've also tried to provide some translations for things that may not be clear from context: **

¿_Que estan haciendo aqu__i_? - What are you doing here?

_Ven conmigo, j__ó__venes. - _You boys come with me.

_No voy a herirte. Venga._ \- I'm not going to hurt you. Come on.

The policeman also asks if the boys are American and how old they are and, he uses hijo in the colloquial sense, not the literal sense. I don't know if there's another word/phrase for that in Spanish because my internet searches rarely pull up nuanced language tips. So, if you know, let me know ;)


	2. Pull My Heartstrings

**Chapter Two: Pull My Heartstrings**

"Of course, officer. We have room here at the convent. Yes, of course I'll take the boys," the nun who'd answered the door at the Convento de la Popa smiled over at Sam and Nate.

"¿_Cuánto tiempo pueden quedarse_?" the policeman asked.

"_Siempre que lo necesiten_," the nun answered.

"_Gracias, monja_," the policeman said. "_Buenas noches._" He tipped his hat and disappeared down the front steps of the convent.

"_Ustedes dos entran_," the nun invited Sam and Nate.

Nate looked up at Sam. He shrugged and walked in. Nate followed.

"You boys are glad Morales found you," the nun said in English once they were inside. "Some of the other policemen aren't so kind. They would have taken you straight to jail for the night."

Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You speak English?"

"Jail?" Nate mouthed, tugging on Sam's sleeve. Sam brushed him off.

"_Sí_," the nun smiled at Sam's surprise. "Some of the sisters here do," she said. "We hear it from tourists, but some of us also took the time to learn it ourselves."

"Oh," Sam seemed at a loss for words.

The nun smiled again. "Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am _Monja_ Maria." She extended her hand in a small gesture towards Sam and Nate that indicated they should introduce themselves.

"I'm Samuel Drake. And this is my little brother Nathan," Sam said.

"Samuel and Nathan," Maria nodded, as if settling on the names. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"You as well, ma'am," Nate said.

"So, you do speak," Maria smiled at him.

"I do," Nate said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

"He's a little shy," Sam supplied.

"I am not!" Nate protested. "I'm just supposed to be pretending I don't understand what's going on around here," he muttered under his breath to Sam.

Maria raised an eyebrow and Nate wondered if she'd heard him too, but if she had, she didn't say anything.

"So, what brings two young American boys to Cartagena?" Maria asked.

"Sightseeing," Sam answered a little too quickly.

Nate fought the urge to facepalm.

"Will you boys be in Cartagena for a while?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," Sam answered. "For a while. We've got...a lot of stuff we want to do in town."

"Well, you are welcome in the convent as long as you need it," Maria said. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Starving," Nate admitted, perking up at the mention of food.

"Then I'll have the kitchen fix something for you. In the meantime, I'll show you to your room. Follow me," she gestured as she turned and picked up a nearby candlestick. She led the brothers down a few hallways, toward the middle of the convent. She reached a hallway with several doors leading off on both sides.

"These are the guest rooms," she said. "You boys can take the first one here on the right." She pushed open the wooden door and entered a cozy room with two beds, a table and some chairs, a fireplace, and a large wooden trunk in one corner. She quickly went about the room, lighting a candle on the table and a couple more candles in sconces on the walls.

"There is firewood beside your hearth if you need it," she said. "And if you'll wait here, I'll see about getting dinner for you both. Make yourselves comfortable," she said. "There's a washroom down the hall on your left. Do you need anything else?" Maria asked.

"No, thanks," Sam said.

"I'll be back shortly then," Maria smiled at them and left the room.

Nate tossed his backpack in the floor and flopped down on one of the beds. "Feels like St. Francis', doesn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," Sam answered distractedly as he started fiddling with the shutters over the window. He was still wearing his backpack.

"What are you doing?" Nate asked suspiciously.

"Seeing where this window goes." Sam tried to make it sound casual.

"We are not running again, Sam," Nate said, tone flat.

"Running? What are you talking about?" Sam asked innocently.

"I'm talking about how you're about to jump out that window while Maria is getting us food and disappear without a thank you or a see you later. And if that's what you're doing, I'm not coming with you." Nate put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, making a show of getting comfortable.

There was silence for a long moment. Nate resisted the urge to crack his eyes open and look. Sam wouldn't leave without him. There was no way. Nate heard the creak of the shutter. The scuff of a footstep and then Sam sighed. Nate smiled. He'd won.

And then the breath left him in a whoosh as Sam pounced on him. Nate opened his eyes and tried to shove Sam off. The brothers tussled, but Sam came out on top, as usual.

"Cocky bastard," Sam growled, pinning Nate's arms to the bed beside his head.

Nate tilted his head innocently. "Cocky?"

"Trying to pull my heartstrings, are you?"

"Hah, you don't have a heart, Sam." Nate laughed as he said it, but it sounded a bit hollow, even to him.

Sam's brow furrowed.

Nate sighed. "It's a joke, man."

"Yeah," Sam said, sitting up. "Yeah, I know." Nate sat up beside his brother, looking at him from the side of his eye. Something was bothering Sam and Nate wasn't quite sure what, but it was obvious he'd struck a chord. He felt the need to fix it, but he didn't know where to start.

"Look, I'm just…" he paused. "I'm tired, Sam," he said. "And I'm hungry. I'm not leaving before I eat."

Sam looked at him for a long moment. "Fine, you win, kiddo." He reached over and ruffled Nate's hair, despite Nate's cries of protest.

* * *

"So, you gonna tell me why we're here now?" Nate asked around a mouthful of meat and beans. The brothers were sitting at the table in the guest room, eating steaming plates of meat, rice and beans that Maria had delivered a few minutes ago.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Sam said, but he was scarfing down the food nearly as fast.

Nate swallowed hard, his food only half-chewed. "Alright, level with me, Sam."

Sam chuckled. "You're a persistent little bugger, aren't you? Fine." Sam reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded flyer. He tossed it toward Nate. "This. This is why we're here," he said triumphantly. He leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his water, grimacing at the bland taste. He'd asked Maria for a beer, cheekily. He knew she wouldn't give him one. She'd just smiled and handed him a pitcher of water.

"We're here for a flyer?" Nate asked, mouth full again.

"No, numbskull, we're here for what the flyer's advertising."

Nate unfolded the crumpled paper and smoothed it out with his hand. It was an advertisement for a new exhibit coming to the museum in Cartagena. An exhibit featuring Sir Francis' Drake and artifacts from his expeditions. "We're going to a museum?" Nate asked incredulously. "You dragged me halfway across the world to go to a museum?"

"Did you see what they're going to have on display?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Drake's stuff. So what? I don't think the museum is going to tell us anything we don't already know about him."

Sam sighed. "Nathan, you're thinking too small. It's not what we can _learn_ from the museum that's important. It's what we can _lift_."

"You're suggesting a museum heist?" Nate's voice hit a pitch higher than he would've liked.

"Keep your voice down," Sam hissed, leaning forward.

Nate instinctively leaned forward too. "Sorry." He shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth.

"I'm not suggesting a museum heist. I'm just suggesting we take back what's rightfully ours, ok?"

"Nothing in that museum is 'rightfully ours'," Nate said.

"Thinking too small, still. If we're going to be the Brothers Drake, we need proof. Something that'll really get us on the right track. Something like," Sam reached over and flipped open the flyer "...Sir Francis Drake's ring," he said triumphantly, stabbing a finger at the page over a picture of a silver ring with latin engravings.

"Sic parvis…" Nate read the latin.

"Magna," Sam finished the part that was obscured in the picture.

"Greatness from small beginnings," Nate translated.

"Yeah. Greatness. From small beginnings. That's us, Nathan. The Brothers Drake. And if we lift that ring, then we'll be the real deal. No more pretending. We'll have a piece of history to prove it."

Nate was warming to Sam's theme, but he didn't want Sam to know it yet. "Ok, but this exhibit's not even up for another couple of weeks," Nate pointed out, indicating the date on the front of the flyer.

"Exactly. Enough time for us to make some local connections, get a good crew, and case the museum."

"A crew? What are you talking about? You don't think we can lift it ourselves? It's a ring, Sam. I could palm that!"

"Sure, but you aren't familiar with the area. We'll need good escape routes, a solid plan, maybe a driver. So we make a few local connections, convince them to help, violá! A team."

"Ok, but what are you going to convince them with? We don't exactly have any money."

"I don't know, I'll think of something," Sam shrugged.

"You mean you'll lie," Nate rolled his eyes.

Sam glared at him. "I'll tell them a _story_, Nate. A harmless story. What's the worst that could happen?"

* * *

Translations:

"¿_Cuánto tiempo pueden quedarse_?" - How long can they stay?

"_Siempre que lo necesiten_," - As long as they need.

"_Ustedes dos entran_," - You two come in/enter


	3. A Mouse, A Meerkat, and A Sangria

**Chapter Three: A Mouse, a Meerkat, and a Sangria**

"Alright, little brother, let's go," Sam said from the doorway to their room in the convent.

Nate looked up from where he lay on his bed, reading a book he'd found in the convent library. He'd been somewhat surprised to find the library quite well-stocked and he'd perused the shelves for close to an hour this morning, eventually settling on a book about Sir Francis Drake, who'd sacked the city sometime back in the 1580's.

"Where are we going?" Nate asked.

"To the museum," Sam said.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Sam?"

"What?"

"That exhibit you want to see isn't there yet."

"I know. Today we're just going to the museum to see what's what, get our bearings."

"So we're going to case the place," Nate sighed.

"Yeah. You could put it that way, if you wanted to be obvious about it. Or, you could say today we're just tourists. Overly observant tourists. But all we're going to do is look. Now, c'mon."

"Fine," Nate sighed and put the book down on the bed, face-down on the page he was reading. "Let's go."

Sam gave him a smile and the two boys headed down into town. Well-fed, well-rested, and in the light of day, Cartagena looked friendlier to Nate. Maybe this whole plan wasn't so crazy after all. The boys wandered downtown, watching people as they headed toward the museum. When they got there, Sam paid for their tickets and they headed inside.

"Where'd we get money, Sam?" Nate asked under his breath.

"Monja Maria. I told her we wanted to go to the museum."

"That's all you told her?"

"Well, there was a little story about some pickpockets on the way here."

Nate rolled his eyes. "You're gonna tell a story you can't remember one day, Sam."

Sam just shrugged. "Relax, little brother. Just enjoy yourself. Today's our day to be two brothers going to the museum like normal. Isn't that what you wanted?" Sam smiled and ruffled Nate's hair. And despite his protests, Nate gave Sam a smile back. Because this _was_ what he wanted. He knew it wouldn't last. Tomorrow Sam would be talking about heists and crews and getaway drivers again, but if Nate had learned one thing in his fifteen years it was to hold on to what he had when he had it because nothing was permanent. So he followed Sam into the museum and tried to forget about the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that told him Sam was only doing this to get on his good side.

In the end, Nate forgot about the heist for a day as he and Sam explored the museum, which currently boasted a Mayan display. Nate even (mostly) forgot that they were there to case the place and lost himself in the history spread out in front of him. After spending the morning in the museum, the brothers wandered the town. Sam bought Nate some new clothes (with more of Maria's money) and both boys got haircuts. When they made it back to the convent that evening, Sam's arm slung over Nate's shoulders, laughing, Nate almost felt normal again. And when a smiling Maria greeted them with dinner on the table, Nate couldn't have been happier. He and Sam went back to their room to wash up and change into their new clothes and joined Maria and a few other nuns for a delicious supper.

Nate fell into bed that night feeling rested and happy and safe for the first time in a long time. Maybe Cartagena wasn't all that bad, he thought as he drifted off to sleep to the sound of Sam snoring gently in the next bed.

* * *

"And why exactly are we going to work with a thirty-year old drug dealer whose name comes from a Disney movie?" Nate grumbled as he and Sam headed into Cartagena two nights later.

"He's not a drug dealer," Sam said. "And I'm pretty sure he isn't named after a Disney movie."

"How do you know?" Nate needled him. "On both counts."

Sam sighed. "Ok, I don't know, but I don't think he is. I think he's just a petty thief who was named _quite normally _by his parents."

"And tell me again why we're working with him?" Nate asked.

"Because, he's our in to the museum," Sam said with an air of exasperation.

"We don't need him, Sam," Nate said.

Sam sighed again, loudly, exaggerated this time. "Will you stop whining and just listen to your older brother, Nate? After all, I have way more experience than you do."

"Then why don't you just pull the job yourself?"

"Because we're the _brothers _Drake. Plural. Now shut up. We're here," Sam said as he led Nate into a corner dive bar on the edge of Cartagena's main street. The building was smaller than Nate expected, with a tin roof and neon lights. The front door was open, spilling noise and light into the street, but a bouncer stood in the doorway, inspecting everybody who came inside. He gave Nate a hard stare as he followed Sam inside, but looked the other way when Sam gave him a cheery smile and a wave. This was obviously where Sam had been spending his last two nights on the town.

Nate followed Sam to a booth in the back corner of the room where a man who looked to be in his thirties lounged with a woman who looked about ten years younger. The man had tan skin and black hair and a scar on one side of his mouth that made it look like he was always smirking. His faded brown eyes were a touch too bright and Nate didn't like the way he eyed him like a hawk as he slid into the other side of the booth with Sam.

"Samuel!" the man raised his beer in greeting.

"Timon!" Sam replied, equally excited. He stuck a hand out and the two shook.

"¿_El es nuestro ratón_?" Timon asked, gesturing at Nate.

"_El no es el ratón de nadie_," Nate grumbled.

Timon laughed, then switched to accented English. "You didn't tell me our little mouse spoke Spanish!"

"Our 'little mouse' is my little brother," Sam said, a warning in his tone as he grabbed a beer off the table and popped the top off.

"Ah," Timon nodded knowingly. "No offence, _niño_," he said, looking straight at Nate. "But you know any good crew has a mouse - the small guy who crawls through windows and shit."

"No offence, _meerkat_," Nate said, managing to keep a straight face. "But I'm not crawling through any shit for this mission."

Nate's blue-gray gaze met Timon's dusty brown in a silent contest of wills. Sam elbowed Nate in the ribs. Nate ignored him.

"Meerkat?" Timon finally broke the silence. He obviously hadn't seen _The Lion King._

"You call me Mouse, I call you Meerkat. Fair enough?" Nate asked, the bravado in his voice at odds with the tattoo his heart beat against his ribcage.

Then Timon threw his head back and laughed. "I like him, Samuel!" he said. "He's got guts." He winked at Nate. "You're gonna go far, kid," he said.

"Thanks," Nate said, still guarded. "I try."

Timon smiled, a gap-toothed smile, with a glint of gold on the left side. "Let me introduce Marisol, my girl," he said, gesturing at the woman seated beside him. "She'll be our driver," he said.

Sam gave her a charming smile and held out his hand. "Nice to see you again," he said as she took it and shook. She made sure to lean forward and give Sam an enticing view down her v-neck t-shirt. Nate rolled his eyes. "This is my brother, Nathan," Sam gestured at Nate with his beer bottle.

Nate nodded.

Marisol giggled, tossing her long, wavy black hair over her shoulder. "A pleasure as always, Mr. Drake," she said, her English even more accented than Timon's. "_El es lindo_," she said, looking at Nate.

Nate held back a sigh. First mouse, now cute. This wasn't going anywhere good. And on top of that, it was obvious that Marisol and Sam were smitten. And if Marisol was Timon's girl, then Sam was getting in way over his head. Nate would bet hard-earned money (if he had any, that is) that Sam picked Timon as their inside man because Marisol was cute. And if Nate knew anything about anything, he knew that Sam flirting with other men's girlfriends was trouble. But what did Nate know? He was just the little brother. He put his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm as Sam and Timon talked.

Just about the time Nate was contemplating whether or not anyone would notice him taking one of the beers off the table, a waitress walked by and put a glass of water down for him, and a couple of plates of chicken and rice, smothered in a hot, red sauce and accompanied with warm tortillas.

Timon gestured for the boys to dig in and Nate and Sam fell to the food with gusto. Despite the fact that they had steady meals at the convent, Nate still ate like he never knew where his next meal was coming from. It was habit at this point. Timon watched him with narrowed eyes, calculating. Nate slowed down and forced himself to eat like a normal human. Sam was oblivious to the whole interaction, his eyes on Marisol.

Dinner seemed to last forever, even though the food disappeared quick enough. The waitress brought out another couple of rounds of beer for the whole table and, at Timon's signal, something fruity for Nate. Nate wasn't really sure what was in it, but it tasted good, so he drank it. Sam was getting a little tipsy - not enough to lose his senses, but enough to where he laughed a lot, smiled at Marisol without trying to hide it. Nate watched Timon's eyes follow Sam's every move, but even Nate had to admit that the bar was kind of cozy and maybe he was imagining the suspicious glances Timon cast their way. They chatted about nothing in particular until the bar was nearly empty of customers and then Sam leaned forward and looked Timon in the eye.

"So, about our job," he said. "You in?"

Timon leaned back in his seat, arm around Marisol. "I can take whatever artifacts I want, right?"

"Anything but the ring and it's yours," Sam nodded.

"Why is this ring so..._especial_?" Marisol asked.

"Let's just say it belongs in the family," Sam grinned, tipping his beer towards her before taking another sip.

Marisol gave Sam a knowing nod, but Nate doubted she had any idea what Sam was talking about. Timon pulled a map of the city out of his pocket and unfolded it on the table, sliding plates and beer bottles out of the way. He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and circled a building Nate recognized as the museum. "Alright, so the museum's here," Timon said. "Their warehouse is here," he marked another building by the coast with an X. "And the exhibit doesn't start for another…?" Timon looked askance at Sam.

Sam did a quick count on his fingers. "Two, three weeks?" he said, not sounding entirely sure.

"Fifteen days," Nate supplied.

"Right, which means we have to act quick," Timon said.

"Quick?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, before they move the exhibits to the museum. They'll move everything about a week before opening, so they have time to set up. If we bust the warehouse before they move the artifacts, it'll be a lot easier than a museum lift."

"Won't it be harder to find the artifacts in the warehouse though?" Nate asked, brow furrowed.

"Nah, I got some friends down at the warehouse who will mark the crates for us so we know where the ring is. Otherwise, we just open boxes and see what's inside."

Something about that didn't sit right with Nate, but he wasn't sure what, so he took another sip of his drink and nodded.

The conversation after that was a blur. Timon was talking logistics and getaway cars and how they'd go at night and wear black. Of course they'd wear black. Nate looked down at his red and white raglan, the one Sam bought him this morning. He'd have to get a different shirt. He took another sip of his drink. The room seemed a bit warm and he felt sleepy. He looked over at Sam and rested his head on his folded arms. Sam was talking animatedly about a ring. A ring...an engagement ring? No, that didn't sound right.

Timon was saying that buddies would mark the crate with chalk and stand watch outside while they looted the inside. Stand watch. Nate wasn't wearing a watch. His head felt fuzzy and he watched the ice in his glass _clink_ and fall as it melted. He reached out to grab the glass. His fingers hit the edge first before he got a good grip on it. He tilted it and let the ice _clink_ against the glass again.

And then Sam was shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, Nathan, it's time to go. Wake up, buddy. C'mon, there you go."

Sam tugged at his sleeve.

"Seems like your brother can't hold his liquor, eh, Sam?" another voice. The Meerkat. What was his name? His face seemed blurry when Nate tried to focus on it. Liquor? He knew the drink they'd given him was alcoholic, but one drink had never made him this fuzzy before.

"He's just tired, I'm sure," Sam said, but there was a defensive note in his voice. "C'mon, Nathan."

Nate felt a tug at his sleeve again and then Sam was practically pulling him out of the booth and standing him up. Nate staggered when he got to his feet and Sam put an arm around his shoulders to steady him.

"Whoa there, little brother," he murmured in Nate's ear.

"Leaving already?" it was a pouty girl's voice. Oh, right. The girlfriend. Why wouldn't the room hold still? Nate put a hand to his head, but the room kept moving. He felt like that should concern him more than it did, but he felt warm and light and giddy and couldn't bring himself to be worried about it.

"I need to get Nathan home," Sam said.

"You need to teach your brother how to drink, Sam," Meerkat laughed.

"And you should keep your fingers out of his drink," Sam accused.

Meerkat lifted his hands in a 'who, me?' gesture and smiled, tipping his beer bottle toward Sam in a mock salute. He wrapped an arm around his girlfriend and pulled her in close. "_Buenas noches_, Samuel," he said, pointedly.

Sam scowled but didn't say anything. Instead, he guided Nate toward the door and out into the cool Columbian evening. The cooler air cleared Nate's head a little, but he still felt like the ground wasn't steady under his feet. Sam got him out to the curb before Nate half-fell, half-sat on the sidewalk. Sam crouched beside him, brow furrowed.

"Hey, Nate, it was one sangria, alright?" Sam tapped his cheek with an open palm. "Get it together."

"Sam." Nate pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them, tucking his head between his arms. "I feel funny."

"No kidding. You feel bad?"

Nate thought about it for a minute. "No. Just...funny." Words were harder than usual right now and his voice sounded a little slurred, even to him. "I don't think I want anymore sangria, Sam."

Sam put a hand on Nate's shoulder. "That's fine," he said, glaring over his shoulder at the bar behind him. "I'm not going to let you drink anything Timon's had his hands near again."

"Told you...he was a..." Nate waved his hand helplessly in the air as he tried to summon the right word.

"Drug dealer?" Sam supplied.

Nate nodded. That sounded right.

Sam shrugged, like he still wasn't convinced. Nate didn't have the heart or the wit to argue with him right now.

Sam stood up and held out a hand. "Alright. Time to go. We need to get you to bed. Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Nate nodded and gave Sam his hand. Sam hauled him to his feet. The world still wasn't as steady as Nate would have liked, but maybe it was like sea legs, because he felt a little more ok with the fact that the world was moving when it shouldn't be. Or maybe it was whatever was coursing through his system taking a greater hold. Either way, the walk back to the convent was a giddy blur. Nate remembered stumbling several times and Sam practically carrying him. He remembered something was outrageously funny and he couldn't stop laughing, despite Sam telling him to shut up. He remembered Sam sneaking him in through the window of the convent so _Monja_ Maria wouldn't see him in this state. ("What state, Sam? What state are we in?" Sam just rolled his eyes.)

Then Nate's head hit the pillow and he didn't remember anything else.

* * *

**Translations: **

**"¿_El es nuestro ratón_?" - He is our mouse?**

**"_El no es el ratón de nadie_,"- He is nobody's mouse_._**

**_El es lindo_," - He's cute.**

**A note on Timon's name-I didn't name him for the Disney movie, but I thought it made a good joke. If I recall right, Nathan was born sometime in the 1980's ('83, I think?), that would place this story in the mid to late '90's, which means Disney's _The Lion King_ would have just been released. Which would probably make the name Timon fresh on Nate's mind as a little talking meerkat. However, it would make Timon (the man) older than the movie, which is why Sam can be certain he wasn't named after the Disney character. **


	4. It Doesn't Add Up, Sam

**Chapter Four: It Doesn't Add Up, Sam**

**When I was first working on this story, it was mostly from Nate's perspective, but as I wrote more, I found that I wanted to give Sam a chance to share his side of the story too, so I ended up inserting Sam's perspective a lot earlier than I originally intended. **

The next morning found Sam tipped back in one of the wooden chairs in their room in the convent, legs up on the windowsill, reading while he waited for Nathan to wake up. He'd picked up Nathan's book on Sir Francis Drake. From the way Nate had left his journal stashed between a couple of the pages, it looked like he'd found something interesting in the book. When Sam pulled the journal out, he found a map of Drake's expedition around the world with a couple of question marks scribbled over the East Indies. _Wonder what that's all about? _Sam made a mental note to ask Nathan.

Just then, Nathan stirred and opened his eyes. Sam pretended like he was still reading, watching Nathan surreptitiously over the top of his book. Nate blinked and sat up. Sam had taken Nate's shirt, socks, and shoes off last night and bundled him into bed before crashing himself, but now that he was looking at Nathan in the light of day, he realized how thin his brother was. As Nate moved, Sam could see most of his ribs. Although his haircut made him look less scruffy, he still looked like a street kid in need of a good meal.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke, sounding a lot more casual than he felt. "Oh, look who's awake. Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. How ya feeling?"

Nate looked over at him. God, he looked tired. "I've got a headache, but I'm ok." He shrugged.

"I'm not surprised," Sam said. "There's a glass of water for you if you want it," he pointed at the table. "I even managed to get some aspirin from Monja Maria." Sam tried to ignore the fact that Nate's jeans were nearly slipping off his narrow hips as he walked over to the table, sinking into the other wooden chair. He sipped at the water. Although he was up and moving, he was more sluggish than usual.

"What was in that drink, Sam?" Nathan swallowed the two aspirin and took another sip of water.

Sam shrugged. "Honestly? I have no idea." He sighed. That sounded terribly irresponsible. What if Timon had slipped something deadly in Nate's drink? Sam ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Nathan. I didn't think he'd pull something like that."

"We're still working with him, aren't we?" Nate gave Sam a hard look.

"Well, yeah," Sam sounded defensive. "We don't exactly have time to find a new partner. Not before the end of the week. Besides, now that Timon knows our plans, if we try to ditch him, he might spill on us."

"The end of the week?" Nate asked. "That's quick."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You don't remember our planning session last night, do you?"

Nate shook his head. "Not really. You flirted with Marisol. Timon called me a mouse. After that, it gets fuzzy."

Sam almost made a crack at Nathan about keeping an eye on his drink next time, but he stopped himself. After all, he hadn't been paying attention to Nathan's drink either. Nathan was no stranger to alcohol - he'd had his fair share in Europe - but he was a lot more careful with it than Sam. While Sam had no inhibitions about getting drunk, he doubted Nate had ever even been properly buzzed. He'd be feeling bad enough that he didn't remember what happened last night, nevermind the leftover physical effects.

"There's not much else to it," Sam shrugged, making it out like Nathan hadn't missed much. "We're going to the warehouse Saturday night with Timon. He's got some friends on the docks who will let us in. They'll mark the crate with the ring when they unload the cargo from the ship to the warehouse. We lift the ring, Timon takes whatever the hell he wants, and we disappear, none's the wiser."

Nathan nodded. "Sounds simple enough, I guess."

The fact that Nathan had no comebacks, no questions, no objections to how dangerous this sounded only furthered Sam's conclusion that his brother wasn't feeling great.

"So, uh, I found this," Sam said, holding up Nathan's journal, hoping it might get his brother talking again.

"My journal?" It sounded like a question.

"Yeah. Looks like you were making some notes about good ol' Sir Francis. What'd you find?"

Nathan lit up, eyes catching that familiar spark they did when he was on some long-forgotten historical trail, making him look less tired and more like Nathan. "Not sure, yet," he said, standing up and coming over to Sam. He leaned over Sam's shoulder and flipped the journal open to the map page. He pointed at the question marks. "But look at this."

"Sir Francis Drake discovered question marks hanging over the East Indies?" Sam joked.

Nate pulled a face. "No, stupid. He took six months to sail from here," Nate pointed at one end of the islands. "To here." He ran his finger across the page to the other end.

"Aaannd?" Sam asked slowly.

"And, it doesn't make sense. Because from what I know about Drake and sailing ships, it should've only taken him a month to cross this distance."

"Right. So it took him six times longer. Maybe he hit a storm?"

Nate shrugged. "I don't think so. Even with bad weather, it shouldn't have taken him that long. It doesn't add up, Sam."

"So, then what does it mean?"

"It means he did something out here that he didn't tell anyone about," Nathan said. "Not even the Queen."

"How do you know he didn't tell the Queen?"

"Because nothing I've read so far talks about what he did here!" Nate tapped the page again. "I'm willing to bet he found something. Or hid something."

"Like treasure?" Sam asked.

Nathan nodded, and leaned back against the wall by the window, crossing his arms with a self satisfied smirk. "Like treasure."

"Like bigger than Avery's treasure?" Sam asked.

Nate's face fell. He tried to cover for it, but Sam caught it. He mentally slapped himself for bringing up Avery. And he'd nearly gotten Nate back in a cheerful mood too.

Nathan shrugged. "I dunno. I need to do more research on it. I'm hoping some of the artifacts at the museum might help me figure it out." He paused for a minute, then muttered under his breath, "You know, if Meerkat doesn't steal them all."

"He can't take all of it," Sam said. Nathan looked a little surprised that he heard him.

"You don't know how many "friends" Meerkat has at the warehouse."

Sam sighed. "You're right. I don't."

"You're going to let this man walk out with a lot of history, Sam."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do? We don't have money to pay him."

Nate shrugged. "Tell him the deal's off. Then call the police, tell them that thieves are going to steal artifacts from the warehouse and let them handle Timon. Then we do a two-man job on the museum after the dust settles."

Sam looked at Nathan for a long minute. Although Nathan didn't say it, he was begging Sam to do this. To make it just the two of them again. Sam could see it in his brother's eyes. But if Sam were being honest, he figured that he and Nate could lift a little more than the ring from that warehouse too. It'd be a lot easier to grab it all and go there than later in the museum. And then there was Marisol. He wanted to stick around to see her more. And if they called the police on Timon, then Marisol would probably get arrested too. Besides, Nate had never pulled a proper heist before. Some small stuff, sure, and he was an excellent pickpocket, but Sam had kept him out of most of the bigger jobs. This would be a great way to break Nathan into the work on a relatively low-risk project. Sam met Nate's blue-grey gaze.

"No can do, Nathan," he said. "I've already given Timon my word. We're going into the warehouse on Saturday. But I'll see if I can convince Timon to let you look at everything before he moves it. Deal?" Sam asked.

Nate sighed and looked down at the floor in a way that very obviously told Sam he wasn't ok with it. "Deal," he mumbled.

Sam stood up and chucked him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle Nate. Nathan winced and Sam remembered his headache too late. But he'd be fine, Sam told himself. He needed to toughen up a little anyway.

"Good. Then I'm headed into town," Sam said cheerily. "Wanna come with?"

"No."

"Suit yourself then!" Sam called as he headed out the door. "I'll be back to check on you later. Monja Maria said you can get her if you need anything. Cheers!"

Sam pulled the door shut before he heard Nate's sigh.


	5. A Kiss in the Dark

**Chapter Five: A Kiss in the Dark**

"Tell me more, Nathan," Maria said.

She and Nate were sitting on the porch at the convent, overlooking the city and enjoying the cool evening breeze after dinner. It had been two days since the misadventure in the bar and Nate opted to spend most of his time at the convent instead of in town with Sam. He didn't want to interact with Timon any more than he had to, and he liked Monja Maria - she was friendly and intelligent and not afraid to spend her time with an awkward, scruffy teenager with a penchant for history.

"Really? You'd like to hear my theory?" Nate asked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"Why not?" Maria smiled at him. "I think it would be an interesting one."

"Well...um...ok." Nate found himself at a loss for words for a moment. It was rare an adult actually wanted to take him seriously, much less on a subject he was passionate about. Nate reached into his back pocket and pulled out his journal, adding it to the spread of books and papers scattered on the table next to him. He flipped it open to the page where he'd drawn a map of Sir Francis' expedition. "So, Sir Francis Drake…" Nate paused and looked at Monja Maria. "You know who he was, right?"

"He was an English _pirata_. Laid siege to Cartagena back in the day," she said.

"Yeah, that's right," Nate sounded impressed.

Maria smiled and motioned for Nate to go on.

"Ok, so he was real friendly with Queen Elizabeth the first of England and did a lot of sailing and stuff for her. So, anyway, he ends up circumnavigating the globe in the late 1570's and he sails through the East Indies on his way back towards England. Only problem is, he records that it took him six months to sail through a passage that should've taken him only one." Nate pointed at the map in his journal, and one in a book he had open on the table.

"And you think you know why he took so long?" Maria asked.

"I think he hid something there," Nate said. "Some kind of treasure. Or power." Nate unconsciously lowered his voice. "Something he didn't even tell Elizabeth about."

"It took him six months to hide it?"

"No, I think he found it, whatever it is, and then hid it. I think that for some reason, he decided not to take it back to England with him. Maybe he even had plans to go back and get it for himself, but he never made it back."

"So you think whatever he found might still be there?"

Nate nodded vigorously. "Yeah. How awesome would it be if I could retrace Drake's footsteps and find whatever it is he hid there?"

"That would be amazing," Maria agreed. "If you ever do find what's hidden there, you should let me know." Her eyes sparkled with interest.

"You mean, you believe me?" Nate asked.

"Of course I do, Nathan. Your theory sounds logical. And if it turns out something else happened and Drake didn't hide anything there, then at least you will have an adventure finding out the truth."

"Yeah," Nate said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I will, won't I?"

"You know our museum here is featuring an exhibit on Sir Francis Drake soon, right?" Maria asked casually.

Nate felt his heart speed up in his chest. "Uh, yeah, I think Sam mentioned it," he said, shuffling some papers around so he could avoid looking her in the eye. _Where was she going with this?_

"Maybe you'll find some clue to his treasure at the museum," Maria suggested.

Nate let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Yeah, maybe," he agreed, hoping his laugh didn't sound too nervous. "I've thought of that myself."

"I believe the exhibit officially opens later this month, but I could see if the museum director would let you in earlier."

"Could you?" Nate couldn't hold back the note of admiration in his voice. "Monja Maria, I'd love to, but I should probably ask Sam about it first. I don't know how long we'll be here, exactly." He felt kind of bad telling lies to a nun, but then again, it certainly wasn't the first time he'd done it. Perhaps he really felt bad telling lies to a lady as genuine as Maria.

"Well, just let me know, Nathan. I've evening prayers to attend to, but if you find out more about Sir Francis, come tell me." She smiled and left the porch, heading back inside.

Nate sank back into his chair and stared off over Cartagena, papers lying forgotten on the table beside him.

* * *

Nate gave up waiting on Sam around midnight. He was pretty sure he knew why Sam wasn't back. And he was pretty sure it was a girl with wavy black hair named Marisol. Nate figured that even with her limited English and Sam's limited Spanish they'd have no trouble communicating. The only problem was, that left Nate out of the loop, as usual.

Sam would probably stagger into the room at some ungodly hour of the night. Probably drunk. Nate would find him in bed tomorrow with a headache and a few choice swear words. And if Sam got in trouble or, heaven forbid, killed - _No, don't go there, Nate - _then Nate would hear about it tomorrow from the police. There wasn't anything else he could do tonight. With a sigh, he blew out the candles and closed his eyes.

Sleep was a long time coming and Nate drifted in a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness for a couple hours. It wasn't unusual for Sam to stay out late with a girl, but something about this time didn't sit right with Nate. Maybe it was because Marisol already had a boyfriend. Or maybe it was because Timon had drugged Nate for kicks. The longer Sam stayed gone, the more Nate hoped that he was wrong and Sam had found some other pretty girl to occupy his time. But the longer Sam stayed gone, the more Nate got the sinking feeling he was right.

He woke up sometime later. It was dark outside, the kind of black dark right before dawn. Sometime around 3 or 4 am he guessed. Nate lay still for a long minute. He wasn't sure what woke him. Someone else was in the room. He could feel it. Could hear the soft sounds of whispered breath. He kept his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

"Sam?"

It was a girl's voice.

Nate clamped his teeth shut on the curse that rose to his lips.

Marisol.

Why the hell was she here?

"Sssam?" she called again, a little louder this time. Nate heard Sam's bed creak. "Where'd you go?"

She sounded petulant, lost. She sounded drunk, her s's slurred. Nate heard the bed creak again and a couple of unsteady footsteps across the bare floor. Then Nate felt weight at the end of his bed, like someone put their hand against the mattress to steady themselves.

Nate kept his breathing even and his eyes closed. If she thought he was asleep, then hopefully she wouldn't bother him. She tried moving again, stumbled over something at the foot of the bed, and crumpled gracelessly onto the end of the bed in a fit of giggles. She shushed herself until she quit giggling.

Then Nate felt a hand on his foot as Marisol tried to pick herself up.

"Sssam?" she asked. "Iss tha' you?"

_Go away. Just go away._

The hand slid up Nate's leg.

_Please go away. _

"You are in _el camo incorecto_, sssilly," Marisol giggled. She crawled onto the end of the bed.

Nate stiffened as he felt her hands on either side of him, her knees pressing against his legs. She jostled him as she crawled closer.

Nate was trapped under the blankets now, his arms pressed against his sides, Marisol straddling him. She leaned forward and he felt her long hair brush his face, sliding across his neck and bare chest. Then he smelled her alcohol soaked breath as she leaned over him.

"_Dame un besso_, Ssam," she mumbled. Something warm and wet brushed Nate's face, a few inches off his mouth. His eyes flew open and he squirmed away from Marisol.

She jerked back in surprise and Nate used the leverage to sit up and shove Marisol away from him.

She yelped as she overbalanced and toppled into the floor. Nate jumped out of bed on the other side, pressing himself up against the wall. "I'm not Sam," he said hoarsely.

"N-nathan?" Marisol whimpered from the floor. She sounded like she might be crying.

Nate didn't say anything.

Just then the door burst open and Sam stumbled in, holding his unzipped pants up with one hand and a candle in the other.

"What's going on here?" he demanded, catching sight of Nate against the wall and Marisol in the floor.

"Your girlfriend just tried to kiss me," Nate hissed, careful not to look too closely at Marisol. Judging by Sam's appearance, he was pretty sure she wasn't wearing much.

"What?" Sam blinked blearily at Nate, uncertain in the candlelight. His hair was ruffled and sticking up at odd angles, his eyes slightly unfocused.

"You know what? Nevermind. I'm not dealing with this tonight." Nate shoved his way past Sam and into the hall.

"Nate, hold on." Sam tried to reach for him, and clumsily grabbed at his pants again as they almost fell. "Where are you going?"

"To a different room. Where I won't get kissed by drunks."

"Nate -"

"Zip your pants, Sam. You look like an idiot." Nate turned into the nearest room and slammed the door for emphasis. He put his back to it and stood there for several minutes, listening. But Sam didn't come after him.

After a while, his heart stopped hammering at his chest and he looked around the room, wishing he'd brought a candle or something. After stumbling around and stubbing his toe, Nate found the bed. There were blankets and sheets on it, so he crawled into bed and lay down.

He was still awake when the sun came up.

* * *

**Translations: **

El camo incorecto - the wrong bed

Dame un beso - give me a kiss


	6. Maybe I Don't Want to Get Laid

**Chapter Six: Maybe I Don't Want to Get Laid**

"I'm disappointed in you, Samuel Drake," Maria said. Sam sat on the bed feeling stupid and unprepared and nowhere near awake enough for this.

"Monja Maria, I -"

"I don't want excuses, Samuel," she said, sighing as she sat on Nate's bed, facing him.

Nate wasn't in the room this morning when he'd woken up, Marisol draped over his chest like a heavy, drooling blanket. He'd barely opened his eyes before Maria walked in, gathered Marisol, dressed her, and escorted her out. Sam felt like he was forgetting something important, but between his splitting headache and Maria's lecture, he was having trouble focusing.

"I know what you did. And I know why you did it. But I'm going to have to ask you not to do it again."

Sam nodded dumbly, staring at the glass of water in his hand.

"Although I offer the convent as a place for travelers to stay, we do abide by rules here. And one of those is that you refrain from bringing extra guests home for the night. I'll not stop you from doing anything in town, but I will draw the line when you abuse my hospitality. Do you understand, Samuel?"

"Yes, Monja Maria."

"Now, you should find your brother and apologize."

"Apologize?" Sam asked.

"For last night," Maria said.

"He ratted me out, didn't he?" He meant for the words to sound angrier, but they just sounded tired.

"And for good reason, Mr. Drake. If you don't remember what happened, I suggest you ask Nathan and think of him next time you decide to enjoy an evening with your lady friend."

Sam felt that sinking feeling return to his stomach, like he was forgetting something important. Like why Nate hadn't been in the room this morning.

"Now, if I catch you drunk or bringing Marisol here again, I will ask you to leave. Is that clear?"

"Si, monja," Sam murmured.

"Thank you, Mr. Drake." Maria stood and left the room.

Sam stared at his water glass like it might give him the answers he was looking for.

* * *

Sam found him on the porch later that morning. Nathan was back at his maps and books, trying to distract himself from last night with little success. He just kept feeling that awkward, wet, misplaced kiss on his cheek. He shuddered to think of it.

"Hey, Nathan," Sam lingered in the doorway for a long moment, blinking. Like he didn't quite know what to say to Nate. Or like the sun was too bright.

"Hi, Sam," Nate said. He couldn't keep the bitter edge out of his voice. "You look like hell."

"Shh, keep your voice down," Sam admonished as he walked over and sat down across from Nate.

"Why? Because your head hurts?"

"No, because I don't think you're supposed to say hell in a convent." It was a weak attempt at a joke and they both knew it.

"I can't say hell in a convent, but you can sleep with another man's girlfriend and that's ok?" Nate felt the heat rise to his face.

"That's not...what I meant." Sam winced.

"Oh? Then what did you mean, Casanova?"

"Level with me, Nathan."

"What do you mean?"

"What happened last night?"

"You don't remember?" Nate's reply was scathing. So what if Sam was confused or ashamed. He ought to be. "Your _girlfriend _tried to crawl in bed with me and kiss me. And you did nothing more helpful than hold your pants up." Nate rolled his eyes. "Props for modesty, Sam."

"She tried to kiss you?" Sam asked, sounding surprised.

"She was drunk. She thought I was you."

"Oh, so it was a mistake."

"A mistake? That's what you think this was? A mistake? That your drunk chick crawled all over your little brother at 3 am because she couldn't tell the difference between me and you? What were you even thinking, Sam? Bringing her here of all places?" Nate demanded, hands on his hips. "It's a convent. A _convent_." Nate stressed the last word.

"Et tu, Brute?" Sam rolled his eyes.

"Did Monja Maria tell you the same thing?"

"Yes. After some little snitch told her."

"I'm not a snitch," Nate crossed his arms. "She asked me what all the noise was last night."

"And who was being noisy?" Sam needled.

"What did you expect?" Nate threw his hands up. "I was basically getting molested!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "She wasn't molesting you, Nate."

"Look, I don't care what she was doing. She shouldn't have been there in the first place."

"Oh? And why not?"

"Because she's taken, idiot. You can't just jump in bed with other people's girlfriends!"

"And what would you know about that?" Sam rounded on Nate. "You've never even been laid."

"I'm fifteen, Sam!"

"I was fourteen."

"That's -" Nate blinked, thrown off topic for a minute. "Sam, that's disgusting. I didn't need to know that."

Sam smirked. "So? Your point is null and void. You've still never been laid."

"And maybe I don't want to be!" Nate yelled.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You got something you need to tell me, little brother?"

"No, shut up, Sam." Nate crossed his arms, feeling flustered. "It's not like I don't think girls are hot. But when the _hell_ do I have _time _to make friends with a girl, much less get her in bed with me?"

"I seem to do ok."

"Yeah, because you're ok with one night stands. Some of us are a little classier than that."

"That's...a low blow, Nate." Sam cut the T in Nate off sharp and hard, like he did when he was angry.

"Then think with this head for once," Nate said, tapping his temple.

"That's even lower."

"Deal with it," Nate snarled. "All you wanted to do was Marisol. You didn't care about Drake's ring. You got what you wanted. Now can I get what I want for once?"

Sam's jaw was set, his arms folded tightly across his chest, a posture Nate had come to realize meant that Sam was holding himself back from hitting something. A posture that scared Nate a little more than he'd like to admit. Sam had never hit him before, but Nate rarely needled him this deeply. He knew he probably had the power to break Sam's self-restraint and there was a part of him that wanted to - that wanted to prove to Sam that he didn't have everything under control. That he wasn't as put together as he thought. That he needed Nate just as much as Nate needed him.

"What is it you want, Nathan?" Sam asked, voice low, words sliding through gritted teeth.

"I want my brother back."

"I'm right here."

"No, I want Sam Drake back. The brother version. Not the one who only care about girls and gold."

"Is that what you think of me?"

"So what if it is?" Nate walked up to Sam's chair, putting his hands on the arms of the chair so that he and Sam were only inches apart.

"Nate, you're really pushing it here."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Don't push me," Sam growled.

"Then think about someone other than yourself for once!" Nate shouted. He reached out to shove Sam, but Sam was faster. His backhand caught Nate square in the face, throwing his head back. Nate staggered back, steadying himself against the table, one hand on his face, staring at Sam in shock.

"I do think about someone other than myself, Nate," Sam said. "Daily. I think about your ungrateful little ass and how to keep it alive. I'm sorry if it gets hard sometimes and I want to take a break and relax, but don't you dare accuse me of not caring about you."

Nate opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words. Sam had never hit him before. Never.

"Are we done here?" Sam demanded.

Nate nodded wordlessly.

"Good. I've got work to do." Sam stood up and walked away.

Nate sat down in the chair Sam just left, staring blankly at the papers on the table. The sting of Sam's slap was already fading - he hadn't hit Nate near as hard as he could have. Nate knew that. Even provoked, Sam cared enough not to really hurt his little brother. But the real wound wasn't to Nate's face and they both knew it.


	7. Pity, You Don't Have a Ring

**Just wanted to drop an author's note to the Guest who seems kind of upset about the story and explain a few of my thoughts (if you read this far): In regards to how Sam and Nate "country-hop", I imagine Sam has illegal contacts and jobs that he's doing to support this (I'm saying this because of the hints he drops in UC4 when he acquires a motorcycle and a "new job"). He's also not above bribery and forgery (Nate's passport is forged) and the brothers are traveling in a time before the rigorous airport security we have now. Also, Sam is old enough to act as Nate's guardian for most of this, since he's a legal adult by most standards. As far as Nate wanting to "go home" it's not to his literal home, since he and Sam don't have one, but he wants to settle down with Sam and get some better resources in order to pursue the treasure better (as we know from the games, even though they have their mom's journal, they don't end up in Panama until they're both in their twenties.) As far as Nate's birthday, I couldn't find a conclusive answer when I looked it up. I thought I recalled it being sometime in the early 80's, but I could be a few years off. Hopefully, that clears up some concerns and, of course, this is fanfiction, so while I've tried to stay true to the games, I have deviated a little ;) **

**Chapter Seven: Pity, You Don't Have a Ring**

Sam sat on the hill below the convent, overlooking Cartagena, smoking a cigarette. He figured he should do it outside so he didn't give Monja Maria any more reason to kick him out. He was pretty sure she'd let Nate stay if it came to that, but Sam knew Nate wouldn't like it if he got himself evicted from their free hotel. And he really needed to clear his head. Needed the space to think.

He just hit Nathan.

He freaking hit his little brother.

Sam scrubbed at his face with one hand. He'd never hit Nathan before. Then again, Nathan had never made him this angry before. They'd had plenty of arguments over the years. And plenty of tussles and wrestling matches. They'd gotten physical with each other since Sam could remember. But usually it was all in good fun, or nothing more than a half-hearted shove or punch in the arm.

It definitely wasn't a slap to the face when Sam was feeling provoked. The worst part was, he knew Nathan was right to be upset with him.

_Damn it, Sam, you're supposed to be looking out for him. You're supposed to be protecting him. Not giving him more things to fear. _

He couldn't deny that Nate had gotten a lot more skittish lately. He was less overtly trusting of Sam and faster to voice his doubts. It had only been two years, but Nate wasn't a wide-eyed kid anymore. Although Sam often made fun of Nathan for worrying about the little things, it was really Nathan's cool head and quick thinking that had kept them from getting into more trouble than not. _But that's supposed to be my job._

Sam slowly realized that he was coming to rely on Nathan's skills as a partner more than his relationship as a brother.

Sam sighed and flopped back on the grass behind him, watching the smoke from his cigarette trail against the sky. Was Nathan right? Should they just go back to the States and try to live a normal life for a while? Should they let Avery's treasure go for now? Play it safe and figure out a better angle?

Sam closed his eyes, feeling the sun warm his face. "What kind of better angle are we gonna get?" he muttered. Giving up wasn't on his radar. But maybe...maybe there was a way to try to repair things with Nathan.

A small smile stretched Sam's lips as he took a long draw on his cigarette. A way to repair things with Nathan and get back at Timon. Yeah. He liked the sound of that.

* * *

"Nathan." Sam knocked on the closed bedroom door.

No answer.

"Nathan," Sam called again.

He tried the knob. It turned in his hand. He eased the door open.

Nathan was sitting on his bed, journal and other papers laid out in front of him again, chewing on the end of a pencil. But by the way he stared through the papers instead of at them, Sam bet Nathan's mind was far from Sir Francis Drake and the East Indies.

Sam walked up to the bed and shuffled the papers out of the way so he could sit down. Nate didn't even protest, which meant he was really distracted.

"Hey," Sam said.

Nathan looked up at him for the first time, pulling the pencil out of his mouth. Sam was relieved that there was no mark on Nate's face from where he hit him earlier. In fact, maybe he was a bit too relieved about it.

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"For what part?"

"For hitting you, first of all."

Nate was silent.

"And for, you know, the whole thing with Marisol."

Nate gave him a doubting look. "You're not being very specific, Sam."

Sam sighed. "Ok, look. I'm sorry that I didn't think about it and brought Marisol back here. And I'm sorry we were drunk. And I'm sorry she tried to kiss you. And I'm sorry I got angry with you and hit you. You were right. I was wrong."

Nate sat still for a long minute, then a slow, devious smile spread across his face. Sam leaned back a little. It wasn't the response he'd been expecting.

"Samuel Drake admitted he was wrong? Go on. Wrong about what?"

"Oh, no, that's not -"

"No, no, be specific," Nate said. "Otherwise, I'm not accepting your apology."

"You little…" Sam grumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Nate motioned with his hand for Sam to continue.

"Fine," Sam muttered. "I was wrong about trying to work with Timon. I was wrong for not listening to you earlier. I was wrong for not paying more attention the night Timon slipped something into your drink. I was just wrong...okay? You happy now?"

Nate shrugged. "That'll do, I guess."

"That the best I'm gonna get, little brother?"

"Right now? Yeah. You might've admitted you were wrong, but I'm still mad."

"Oooh, Nathan Drake, mad. Scary." Sam waved his hands in the air near his head and affected a look of mock horror. Nathan's wrath, while usually justified, was nothing to fear.

Nate threw his pencil at Sam. It bounced off his chest and clattered to the floor.

"Ow!"

"That didn't hurt, you big baby."

"Oh yeah? How much you wanna bet?" Sam pounced on Nate, but this time Nate was ready and met Sam's tackle with surprising strength. He deflected Sam off into the floor and jumped him before he had a chance to react. The two wrestled across the floor between the beds, but this time, it was Nate who ended up on top, pinning Sam with his hands beside his head. They stopped for a minute, breathless and both a little surprised. And for the first time, Sam realized Nate wasn't a little kid anymore. And he wasn't letting him up.

"So, uh, Nathan?" Sam panted.

"What?"

"While we're on the subject-"

"What subject?"

"-I've got a proposal for you."

Nate looked at him wryly. "Pity, Sam, you don't have a ring."

"Not yet," Sam grinned, wiggling the fingers on his left hand.

Nate rolled his eyes.

"But I know where to get one."

"Uh-huh," Nate's expression was closed, tone guarded again.

"And I'm going to need your help to get it."

"Well, that's really untraditional of you, Sam," Nate said, but his eyes betrayed his interest. "Thought you'd make it more special if we did it together or something?"

"Actually, yes."

Nate sat back, eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he had his head tilted that way he did when he was curious. "Alright, I'll bite."

"You and me, museum heist. Just the two of us. Tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow's Friday, Sam."

"I know. That's the point."

Nate's eyes widened fractionally. "You're ditching Timon?" He moved off Sam and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Sam sat up and nodded. "Yeah. I figured maybe that would make up for the way I've been acting lately."

"But what about your deal with Timon? Won't he be upset when he figures out we gypped him?"

"Technically, we're not gypping him. He can still rob the warehouse Saturday and take whatever he wants."

"And what'll we do on Saturday?"

"We'll be long gone by then. With the ring."

"You're suggesting we cut and run?"

"Isn't that our specialty?" Sam asked. He was only half-joking.

Nate laughed, a humorless chuckle. "You got that right."

"So, whaddya say, little brother? You in?" Sam stuck his hand out.

Nate looked at his hand, then met Sam's eyes. "I'm in." He took Sam's hand and the two shook.

"Good!" Sam announced, standing up. "Then I'm going out for the evening."

"Sam," Nate said, tone cautionary.

"What?"

"Not. A. Word." Nate glared at Sam.

Sam looked confused.

"When you 'go out'," Nate described quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "it's with a girl. And right now that means Marisol."

Sam sighed. Nate was absolutely right.

"And you like to get chatty. We don't know what she'll say to Timon. So not a word to her about our plans."

_Our plans. _Sam caught the plural. Nate was really in on this one. There was a part of Sam that told him he better take this one seriously, but his reply was casual, snarky, as usual. "Cross my heart." He smirked, crossing a finger in an X shape over his chest.

Nate crossed his arms.

"C'mon, little brother. It's my last night to see her."

"Personally, I think you could do without her."

"Personally, I don't think you get it."

"I don't, but go on," Nate waved a hand at him, gathering up the scattered papers from his research earlier. "You'll just be miserable if you don't go."

"Thanks, Nathan," Sam reached over and ruffled Nate's hair on his way out the door.


	8. Hello, Mouse

**Chapter Eight: Hello, Mouse**

"We still have to be really careful, Sam," Nate cautioned Friday night as the two brothers got ready for the heist in their room in the convent. Both boys had donned black t-shirts and dark jeans that Sam acquired earlier in the day.

"When am I ever not?" Sam spread his hands and tried to look innocent.

Nate took a breath to speak, but Sam pressed a hand to his mouth to stop him.

"Nevermind, forget I asked. You're about to regale me with all the times I haven't been careful."

Nate nodded enthusiastically. Sam sighed and cautiously removed his hand. Nate stayed quiet.

"Look, that's why there's two of us, _hermano_." Sam gestured between them. "So that you can be the careful one and play rearguard."

"Rearguard? Why do I need to play rearguard?"

"You probably don't," Sam tried to sound nonchalant and failed. "But just in case, here." Sam tossed something black and compact at Nate. Nate caught it, then fumbled it as he realized it was a gun.

"Is this loaded?" he demanded, fighting to keep his voice level.

"Yeah," Sam said, not meeting Nate's eye.

"You just threw a loaded gun at me?!" Nate dropped the gun on the bed beside him like it was a live snake. He was careful to point it away from him and Sam.

"The safety's on, wuss," Sam said.

Nate crossed his arms so Sam couldn't see his hands shake and glared up at his brother. "I don't care what's on, numbskull. You don't throw loaded guns at people."

"Are you dead?" Sam put his hands on his hips.

Nate glared at him.

"See? You're fine. Now pick up the gun and let's go."

"Where's yours then?"

"Where's my what?"

"Your gun?"

Sam pointed at the gun on the bed.

"Then what the heck am I carrying it for?" Nate demanded.

"Because, they'll expect me to carry it," Sam said.

"Who's they? I thought this was a secret mission."

"It is. But just in case. If we run into anybody, I want you to be protected."

"You mean you want me to shoot them while they're looking at you."

Sam walked back and picked up the gun, pressed it into Nate's unwilling hands. "I'm not asking you to shoot anybody, Nathan," he said. "But if someone _is_ trying to kill me, it might be nice. Now c'mon." Sam walked back to the door. "And keep that thing out of sight!"

* * *

Sam led Nate on a roundabout route through Cartagena towards the docks. It was a route he'd probably taken a couple of times, given his confidence. One that Nate felt Marisol might have something to do with. Nate couldn't shake the feeling that at any second someone would point out the gun pressed up against his back, tucked under his waistband, but they made it to the warehouse without any interruption. He guessed that was one good thing about the baggy t-shirt Sam had given him for tonight.

The brothers stopped in the shadow of a couple of shipping crates to survey the warehouse. It was nearly midnight and this stretch of the docks was empty except for a few guards patrolling at intervals near some of the bigger warehouses. Sam and Nate passed most of the dock workers several minutes ago when they slipped by the dockside taverns. Out here it was quiet save for the occasional footfall on the wooden pier or the soft _shush, shush_ of the waves.

After watching for several minutes, they determined there was only one guard at this warehouse and he made his rounds every ten minutes or so. When the guard rounded the corner, the brothers snuck up to the front door. It was held shut with a thick chain and padlock.

"Damn," Sam muttered under his breath.

Nate examined the lock. It was a combination lock, so they couldn't pick it. "How do we get in?" he whispered.

"Let's go around back. Look for an open window or something," Sam suggested.

They slipped around the side of the warehouse, following the guard's route so that he would stay in front of them. After walking about half the length of the warehouse, Nate stopped and pointed up. A window near the top of the wall was cracked open, it's bottom edge tilted out toward the street.

"Aha," Sam exclaimed softly. "There's our ticket in."

He walked over and stood under the window, locking his hands together to make a step for Nate. "C'mon," he whispered.

"Yeah, but how'll you get in?" Nate asked.

"There's a door back there," Sam jerked his head back the way they came. "Regular sized door, simple knob."

Nate looked down the wall and saw it. He nodded.

"You should be able to unlock it from the inside. After I boost you in, I'll go to the door and knock three times. When you hear me knock, let me in."

"Alright," Nate nodded and took a couple steps back. "Ready?"

"Go for it."

Nate took three short running steps, then jumped into Sam's hands. Sam boosted him up and Nate caught the bottom of the windowsill. He pulled himself up and inside and eased himself onto a stack of crates. He turned and gave Sam a thumbs up, then climbed down the stack to the floor. When he was on ground level, he pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and clicked it on, careful to keep the beam in a small pool at his feet. Since all the windows in the warehouse were near the ceiling, he'd be pretty safe as long as he didn't shine the light above his head. He made his way down the length of the warehouse until he came to the door.

Sam was right. It was just a simple deadbolt on the inside. All Nate had to do was turn the lock and Sam would be in. He turned off his flashlight and waited by the door for Sam's knock. But it wasn't a knock that came from the other side of the door.

"Samuel Drake," an accented male voice called.

Nate felt his mouth go dry and his stomach flip-flop. He pressed his ear to the door. _They were supposed to be here in secret._

"Oh, hey, Raphael," Sam laughed, that laugh he had when he was nervous and covering up for something. Nate only hoped it didn't sound as obvious to Raphael as it did to him.

_But who was Raphael anyway?_

"What are you doing here, Samuel?"

"I'm, you know, casing."

"Casing?"

"Uh, yeah. _Para la noche del Sábado_. Figured I'd _get a good look around_." Sam put an unusual amount of emphasis on the last few words.

On the other side of the door, Nate facepalmed. _Way to be obvious, Sam._

"You talking to someone?" Raphael asked.

"You, buddy," Sam said.

Nate looked around, taking Sam's hint. If he could find the ring while Sam distracted Raphael (who must be someone connected to Timon), they might still make it out of here without a hitch. After all, nobody knew Nate was inside the warehouse. He stepped away from the door, keeping one ear on the conversation outside, and flicked on the flashlight again. Timon promised that his men would mark the crate with the ring when it was unloaded from the ship, so it should already be marked. All Nate had to do was find it. Problem was, he didn't know what the mark looked like.

Nate swept his flashlight over crate after crate, looking for anything unusual on the rough wood. All the crates were stamped with the museum's name on one side and...bingo! A crate set off to the side from the others with a large blue X chalked on the lid. That had to be it. Nate walked up and pulled at the lid. It didn't budge. He cursed under his breath and looked around for something to pry it up with. He could still hear the murmur of voices outside and since no one started shouting, he figured he had some time.

Nate searched around and found a crowbar leaning against one wall with a few other tools. He snagged the crowbar and went back to the crate, setting his flashlight on the ground. He slipped the crowbar under one end of the lid and pried it up, slowly. To his relief, it came off easily and Nate eased it to the floor. He grabbed the flashlight and started rooting through the crate.

After he got through layers of packing materials, he found several smaller boxes inside, each one marked with a description of its contents in Spanish.

"_Casco...diario de navigación…" _he whispered as he read the labels. "Ah-ha! _Anillo...y descifrador? _Decoder. Huh." Nate pulled the small box out of the crate and popped it open. He pulled more packing material out of the inside until he got to two objects each wrapped in soft cloth. Nate unwrapped the little one first and a grin split his features. It was Drake's ring. He tilted it in the beam of his flashlight to read the inscription.

_Sic Parvis Magna. _

He laid the ring on the edge of the crate and unwrapped the larger package. A heavy metal disk fell into his hand, inset with several moving rings and lines of script. "A decoder." Nate turned the disk a couple of times in his hand. "But what does it decode?"

He looked again at the ring sitting on the edge of the crate, then at the decoder. There was a slot in the center of the decoder that looked like the ring would fit. Nate grabbed the ring and slipped it inside just as he heard a voice behind him.

"_Hola, ratón_."

* * *

Translations:

_Para la noche del Sábado_. - For Saturday night.

_Casco...diario de navigación… - _Helmet...logbook...

_Anillo...y descifrador? - _Ring and decoder?

_Hola, ratón - _Hello, mouse


	9. Nathan!

**Chapter Nine: "Nathan!"**

Sam knelt on the rough wood of the dock, hands on his head, scowling up at Timon who sat on a crate in front of him, twirling a pistol on his finger. "_Eres_ _estúpido_, Samuel. Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Timon reached over and pulled Marisol closer to him, arm wrapped around her waist.

She resisted and he tightened his grip, the gun slowing in his other hand. Marisol eyed it warily from her good eye, the other swollen and bruised. She didn't look at Sam. Guess that was what he got for telling Marisol he was leaving town a day early. Timon wouldn't have to think too hard to put two and two together and figure out why.

"Only a dog beats his girl to make her talk," Sam snarled.

"And only a rat backstabs his friend. But I shouldn't have expected more than that from the mouse's brother, eh, Samuel?" Timon cocked an eyebrow at him.

Sam only scowled more.

"By the way, where is that brother of yours?"

"At the convent," Sam lied.

"Are you sure about that?" Timon leaned forward with a nasty, self-satisfied grin.

"You think I don't know where my brother is?" Sam demanded.

"No, no, Samuel. I think you know exactly where he is," Timon drawled as the door behind Sam burst open. Nate stumbled out, prodded from behind by a dark haired young henchman of Timon's. "I just don't think you lie well."

The henchman pushed Nate to his knees beside Sam and gestured for him to put his hands on his head too. Sam caught the outline of the gun against Nate's shirt as he raised his hands and quickly looked away. If the henchman wasn't smart enough to search Nate, Sam wasn't going to give him the hint.

Nate gave Sam a scathing glare. "I thought you weren't going to tell her," he hissed, eyeing Marisol.

"I didn't," Sam insisted, shaking his head. "I swear."

"Shut up," Raphael interjected.

Sam and Nate stopped talking.

The henchman who brought Nate out of the warehouse walked up to Timon and handed him something gold and circular, a little bigger than Timon's hand.

"_Buen trabajo_," Timon nodded at the man and turned the object over in his hands.

Sam gave Nate a raised eyebrow.

Nate shook his head, scowling.

"Holding out on me, eh, Samuel?" Timon looked at Sam. "This is a little more than a ring, _amigo_."

Sam shook his head, for once at a loss for words.

Nate, on the other hand, spoke up. "The ring's inside," he said. "I was trying to get it out."

Timon's eyes flicked to Nate and he smirked. "You were trying to get it out?"

Nate nodded, gaze fierce as he stared Timon down.

"A day early?" Timon asked, sighting casually down his gun.

Nate visibly paled and he glanced over at Sam, fear flickering in his eyes.

"This was all my idea, Timon," Sam said. "Leave him out of this."

Timon shook his head slowly, as if he were dealing with a small child. "Samuel, Samuel, Samuel. If you wanted your brother to stay out of this, you shouldn't have brought him along. He's an accomplice now."

"Look, the deal still stands," Sam said, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. Beside him, Nate tilted his head, one eyebrow quirked incredulously. "You can have whatever you want. Except the ring."

Timon looked down at the gold disk again, tilting it so that the faint moonlight struck the ring resting inside. "Why the ring, Samuel? It's got to be more than a family heirloom for you to want it so bad."

"It's just an old ring," Sam lied blithely.

"Yes, and this…" Timon gestured with the disk. "What is this?"

"We don't know," Nate said quickly.

Timon narrowed his eyes. "Liar."

Nate shrugged, a belligerent expression on his face, the one that meant he was covering his fear. Sam felt pride warm his chest for Nate's bravado. Maybe the kid really could hold his own. But it was Sam's fault he was here now, so it was Sam's job to get him out. Sam shifted uncomfortably on his knees, subtly moving closer to Nate.

Timon turned and paced in front of the boys, looking at the disk and resting his pistol on his shoulder. Marisol's gaze flicked between Timon and Sam nervously. She bit her lip and crossed her arms, shivering as if she were cold. Sam shifted again.

"I consider myself a reasonable man and I've never shot a child before. But I cannot tolerate liars and thieves. You see where this is going?" he asked, glancing back at Sam and Nate.

He was met with twin sets of angry stares. Timon laughed and turned to pace away again. "I'm going to give you boys an offer."

Sam leaned close to Nate. "On my signal, get down."

Nate tensed, a question in his eyes, but he nodded once, the movement sharp and wary.

Timon paused, back to Sam and Nate. "I suggest you take it."

Just then, Sam lunged and grabbed the pistol from the back of Nate's jeans. Raphael shouted a warning and Marisol threw herself at Timon's back. Sam steadied himself on Nate's shoulder and shot Raphael. Nate yelped, wincing as the gun fired next to his ear. Sam would have to apologize for that later. Raphael screamed in pain and dropped his gun, clutching his bleeding right hand to his chest.

"Duck!" Sam pressed his brother to the ground as the second henchman fired. The bullet scored the back of Sam's shoulder as he covered Nate with his body. Sam grit his teeth and shot back, already standing and pulling Nate to his feet. His bullet went wide, but sent the henchman scrambling for cover.

"Run, Nathan!" He gave him a hard shove in the back. "Run!"

Nate took off as fast as his legs would carry him. Sam wavered, looking back at Marisol, who was wrestling Timon for control of his pistol.

"Go, Samuel!" she shouted.

Sam could feel the indecision tearing him apart.

"Go, _idiota_!" she yelled.

Sam ran.

He caught up to Nathan just as his brother ducked into a nearby alley and the two crouched down behind a crate for cover.

"You just shot a man," Nate gasped, wide-eyed.

Sam looked over at him, surprised. "Yeah," he agreed.

"Did you plan to do that?" Nate asked, eyeing the gun warily.

"No, not really." Sam risked a glance around the edge of the crate.

"Did you miss on purpose?" Nate asked.

"What?"

"That second shot. Did you miss on purpose?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know," Sam looked back at Nate. "Why is that important right now?" he growled.

"It's important," Nate murmured, arms crossed. Sam realized he was shaking and trying to hide it. He chose to ignore it.

"Yes, I missed on purpose," Sam said, the words feeling hollow. He wasn't sure if he'd missed on purpose or not. He was a decent shot, but all his practice with guns so far had been at targets that didn't move or return fire. He'd brought the gun tonight on a whim and ended up using it. His shot at Raphael had been a lucky one. He'd been firing quickly and under pressure and the shot was sloppy. His second shot was even worse and he knew it. But he also knew he'd been aiming at the guy. "I missed on purpose," he reiterated, but the words carried even less conviction. "Ok?"

"Ok." Nate agreed. He looked small and scared, tucked into the corner of the wall and the crate, his knees drawn up to his chest.

Just then, a bullet cracked the top edge of the crate and Sam and Nate both flinched as wood shards rained down on them.

"I know you're back there!" the henchman yelled.

"Run, Nate!" Sam shouted as he jumped up and returned fire. The henchman jerked back behind the wall as Sam's shot hurtled past him and then Sam and Nate were running again. Nate whipped around a corner ahead, heading back toward town and Sam followed, risking glances over his shoulder to watch their backs.

"i_Bastardos_!" a shout rang out behind them and Sam looked back to see Timon's angry face join his henchman.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath.

Ahead of him, Nate was flagging, his breath coming in great heaves as he ran.

"C'mon, little brother," Sam caught up to him and grabbed his hand as another bullet flew past and chipped the brick wall beside them. Nate winced as a shard of brick cut his cheek. Sam pulled him forward, taking them on turn after turn, threading their way back into the streets of Cartagena proper. They flew past a few startled people on the streets, people who screamed and scattered at the sight of Sam's gun and the men in pursuit.

_Where were the police when you needed them? _Sam thought desperately. _Surely all the gunfire got their attention by now?_

The brothers ducked down another side street just as two more shots sounded behind them. Sam instinctively ducked and Nathan stumbled hard, breath catching in his throat in a strangled gasp, but he kept his feet and kept running. Sam knew Nate wasn't going to last much longer. He needed to stop this chase and he needed to stop it now. His eyes scanned the street looking for somewhere, anywhere that would give them a defensive position. A dead-end alley on their right caught his eye and he shoved Nathan toward it, making sure to keep his body in front of Nate's as they pressed against the corner.

Nathan slumped against the wall, breathing heavy, irregular, one hand on a stitch in his side. Sam covered him and waited at the corner of the alley, mentally counting up his shots.

_One at Raphael, two at the henchman. _

That meant he had seven left. Footsteps rounded the corner and Sam didn't even look, he just shot blind. He was rewarded with a shout and the sound of his bullet slamming into a wall.

_Six._

"Sam?" Nate gasped from behind him.

"Shh," Sam hissed harshly. He needed to concentrate, listen for the sound of footsteps, anything that would give Timon away.

He heard Nate swallow hard, but his brother didn't ask any more questions, so Sam kept his gaze on the street. Just then Timon appeared, hands up, gun nowhere to be seen. His henchman wasn't with him.

"Samuel!" he called out as he walked down the street.

"What do you want, Timon?"

"I think maybe we should stop trying to fill each other full of holes, _amigo._"

Sam waited. He didn't trust this. His eyes flicked across the street, watching for any sign of the henchman. Timon was clearly playing distraction - but for what?

"Don't you want to go back home alive, Samuel?"

Sam still didn't answer.

"C'mon, boy, I know you aren't mute." Timon came a few steps closer.

"Stop right there," Sam called, making sure Timon clearly saw the barrel of his gun. Timon stopped. "Come any closer and I'll put a bullet between your eyes." Sam said gruffly.

Behind him, he felt Nate stiffen, a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam shook it off. He didn't have time to think about Nate's conscience right now.

"Come now, Samuel, I'll -"

"Sam!" Nate grabbed Sam's shoulder again, harder this time and swung Sam around to face the back of the alley just as Timon's henchman jumped down from a nearby roof. Sam pulled the trigger instinctively.

_Five. _

Timon's henchman went down with a bright blossom of red on his chest, his gun skittering across the street to land near Nate's foot. Nathan flinched as if the gun might shoot him all by itself, but his eyes were locked on the henchman, who lay groaning in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. Sam didn't meet Nate's eye. His hands shook. He felt sick. He knew he'd lose it if he looked at Nate's pale face.

Sam turned back just in time to face Timon at the mouth of the alley, gun in his hand again. Sam gripped his own gun in two unsteady hands, willing himself to hold still. "Don't come any closer, Timon. Or I'll shoot you like I shot him. Don't think I won't do it."

He saw the indecision in Timon's eyes as he took in his bloody henchman. Saw the anger and rage as his gaze flicked back to Sam and Nate.

And then Sam heard the sound he'd been waiting all night to hear. A siren wailing in the distance. The police were finally on their way. He knew Timon would want to avoid the police as much as he did and it gave him enough of an edge to bargain with.

"Run, Timon." Sam said, voice low, foreign even to him. "There's nothing for you here but jail or death. Choose carefully. You've got the ring and that gold disk. You win if you walk away now." Sam was tired. His shoulder stung from where the bullet grazed him. He could feel Nate shaking behind him. His finger twitched on the trigger. It would be so easy to pull it. So easy to end Timon's life here and now.

The world narrowed for Sam until all he saw was the barrel of his gun pointed at Timon's chest. Red seeped in at the edges of his vision. Red like blood. His breath sounded too loud in his ears, his heart pumped too hard in his chest. Timon shifted. Sam pulled the trigger.

_Four. _

His bullet slammed into the wall just right of Timon's shoulder. Timon ran.

Sam moved toward the end of the alley, checking to make sure the coast was clear. "C'mon, Nathan, let's get out of here."

"Sam," Nathan choked out in a strangled voice.

Sam turned around, dread sitting heavy in his stomach. Nate was leaning against the alley wall, one hand pressed to his side, and a strange expression on his face. Sam thought that his black t-shirt looked a little blacker on the right side under his hand.

"Nathan?" Sam asked.

Nate looked down at his side.

Sam felt his voice catch in his throat. "What's wrong?"

Nate tilted his hand toward Sam, palm up. Even in the dim streetlight, Sam could see the crimson shine of blood on Nate's palm, dripping from his fingers.

"Sam." The single word was a plea for help.

"Nathan!" Sam was just fast enough to catch his brother before he hit the street.


	10. Someone! Anyone?

**Chapter Ten: Someone! Anyone?**

Everything hurt. God, it hurt. Nate grit his teeth against the pain in his side as his knees gave out and he collapsed. Sam lunged forward and caught him, sinking to the street, cradling Nate in his arms.

It took Nate a minute to realize Sam was talking. Babbling, words spilling out of his mouth faster than Nathan could follow.

"Nathan! Can you hear me? It's Sam. It's me. You're gonna be ok, little brother. You'll be alright."

"S-s-sam…" the name stuttered off Nathan's lips, a jumble of sound and letters.

"Nathan." Sam's eyes locked on his. "I'm here. I've got you."

"S-s-sam...it h-hurts," Nate said. Sam drew a sharp breath and looked away. But not before Nate saw the fear in Sam's gaze. Nate had been hurt plenty of times before - when he broke his arm as a kid, falling out of a tree at St. Francis'. When he crashed Sam's motorcycle in California, trying to take a turn on dirt Sam told him he wouldn't make. When he ended up in a fistfight and got a couple of fractured ribs for his trouble. But he'd never seen this hollow flicker of fear in Sam's eyes before. And it terrified him.

"I know, Nathan, I know it hurts," Sam said, visibly trying to keep his voice steady. "We've got to get back to the convent, alright? They can help."

"H-hospital," Nate muttered through clenched teeth.

Sam shook his head. "Too risky," he said as he pulled at the bottom of his t-shirt until he ripped a strip off.

Nate wanted to argue with him, but he couldn't summon the words. Then he felt Sam's hands tug at his shirt, lifting the hem until he could see Nate's side. Nate closed his eyes and turned his head. He didn't want to look.

Sam hissed and cursed under his breath.

Nate swallowed hard.

"It's fine," Sam said. "It's not that bad. You'll be fine," he said as he clumsily packed the torn strip of his t-shirt against Nathan's side. Nate whimpered as Sam put pressure on the wound.

"Oh, damn it all," Sam said. "Here, Nate, sit up, yeah?"

Nate opened his eyes as Sam propped him against the alley wall. Sam slipped out of his shirt and used it to tie off his makeshift bandage, pulling the ripped material tight against Nate's side. Nathan ground his teeth so hard Sam heard the squeal.

"Sorry, little brother," Sam said as he rearranged Nate's shirt to hide his handiwork. "But I can't have you bleeding out on me."

Nate nodded, jaw clenched so tight he couldn't answer if he wanted to.

"C'mon, up you go." Sam got an arm under Nate's shoulder and lifted him as gently as he could.

Nate groaned as Sam levered him to his feet. One hand clutched uselessly at his side, just above the hip, as if his fingers could stop the blood. Stop the pain.

"L-let me l-lie down," Nate slurred, his whole body feeling heavy, distant, like he couldn't control his own limbs.

"No can do, Nathan," Sam said, trying to keep his tone light. "We've got to get back to the convent."

"I can't," Nate gasped as Sam took a step forward, bringing Nate with him. Nate clung to Sam's shoulder with one hand, the other still pressed to his side. Despite Sam's makeshift bandage, there was blood everywhere - on Nate's hands, his shirt, his jeans. He felt it run down into his shoe. And now Sam had it all over his hands and chest too.

"C'mon, buddy, let's go," Sam said gently, the words hazy through Nate's pain. "Let's walk. One foot in front of the other. You know how this works."

Nate bit his lip, but he did what Sam said. He put one foot in front of the other. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life.

Nate screwed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, gripping Sam's shoulder with claw-like fingers. It was his only anchor to reality. His head spun. The world faded around him, but Sam was vibrant. Sam was alive. If he could just hold on, then maybe...

Nate didn't even feel it when his legs gave out and Sam scooped him into his arms and broke into a run.

* * *

Sam wasn't sure how he made it back to the convent. Only that he did and he was crying so hard he could barely see a thing and he had no idea what time it was and that he was covered in blood and he hoped to God someone would open the door.

His shoulder stung, his head spun, his blood rushed in his ears so loud he couldn't hear anything else. Nathan lay limp in his arms, maybe dead. No, not dead. Sam could feel the unsteady rise and fall of Nate's chest. See the flicker behind Nate's eyelids as his eyes moved, as if he were dreaming. Sam stared helplessly at the convent door for a minute, blinking back tears. Then he kicked it. He wasn't about to lay Nate down to knock.

"Monja Maria!" he screamed. "Please. Open the door. It's Sam. Sam and Nathan!"

He looked back down at Nate's face, now ashen white. "C'mon, Nathan, stay with me. Stay with me little brother. We're here. We're here. Stay with me."

Nate didn't answer.

Sam pounded the door until his toes were bruised. If he made enough noise, someone had to hear it. Right?

"It's ok, Nathan, they're coming to open the door now. You're gonna be alright." The words sounded empty, ringing in the hollow dark night. Sam didn't even know if Nate could hear him, but he felt the need to keep talking. Keep talking so his mind didn't descend into darkness. So he didn't think about the worst case scenario.

He kicked the door again. Surely someone heard him by now?

"Monja Maria? Someone! Anyone?" he called out, voice breaking on the last syllable. Sam felt utterly helpless. He felt dizzy and empty. He staggered and sank to his knees, resting his forehead against the door.

"Please," he begged, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Please, God, don't let Nathan die."


	11. He Would Follow You to Hell

**Chapter Eleven: He Would Follow You to Hell**

"_Quédate quieto_, Samuel," Maria said softly.

Even though his mind didn't register the words, Sam knew that tone and forced himself to sit still. He clenched his fists on his knees to stop himself from fidgeting as Maria prepared her supplies to look at the bullet wound on his shoulder.

As soon as a startled nun opened the door to the convent to find a bedraggled, bloody Sam and Nate on the front doorstep, Maria had taken charge with a clear-headed efficiency that impressed Sam. She'd called a doctor and made sure Nate was stable until he arrived. Sam tried to help, but with his hands shaking and his vision swimming, the doctor quickly ushered him out of the room to wait. Sam paced the hall outside until his legs were jelly. He slid down against the wall and closed his eyes for a minute.

Sometime later he woke up to Maria shaking him gently and urging him to clean up and go to bed. He'd demanded to see Nate. She assured him Nate was stable, but he should get some rest himself first. The doctor would stay overnight with Nathan. But when Sam stood up and Maria saw his shoulder, she steered him to the convent's kitchen instead where he was sitting now, a first aid kit, bandages, and a bowl of steaming water on the table by his elbow.

Though he barely paid it attention earlier, he felt oddly self-conscious without his shirt as he accepted the cloth Maria gave him and went to work washing Nate's blood off himself. He'd never cared about keeping his shirt on before. So he kept his gaze on the task at hand, scrubbing his hands, arms and chest until the water in the bowl was rust-colored. When he finished, Maria bid him sit still again as she brought another chair up behind him and sat down.

Sam felt her warm hands on his shoulder and he took a deep breath as she cleaned his wound.

"There," she finally murmured.

Sam let out his breath.

Maria pulled a small jar from the kit on the table and unscrewed the lid. "This might hurt," she warned.

He nodded.

She spread something cool from the jar onto Sam's shoulder. He grit his teeth against the sting of antiseptic and shuddered as she finished.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Fine," he grunted. It was obviously a lie.

Maria let it slide as she bandaged the wound. "Your shoulder should heal soon," she said softly as she cleaned up the medical supplies.

"Thank you," Sam said, head down, one arm on the table, leaning forward as he waited for the sting in his shoulder to subside.

Maria regarded him in silence for some time, then came around and sat in a chair in front of him. "May I ask why Nathan got shot?"

Sam lifted his head to look at her. She was composed as usual and he was exhausted and sore and worried about Nathan and the body he'd left in an alley tonight. Maria always seemed to catch him at his most vulnerable. And her questions always felt baited. She'd just asked _why_ Nathan got shot, not how. Not where or when. Why. She wanted an explanation. Sam didn't feel like humoring her right now.

"May I ask why I'm supposed to be my brother's keeper?" he retorted.

"I believe you already know the answer to that question," Maria said.

Sam sighed and looked away. He did know the answer to that question. He was responsible for Nathan because he'd always been responsible for Nathan. He was the older brother. He'd been the one to grow up quick, to shield Nathan from the pain of their father leaving and their mother dying. He'd tried. And then, one day, somewhere in their adventures, he realized he'd stopped trying so much. Somewhere along the way, something changed, but Sam didn't know what it was.

"I'm no Cain," he finally said, voice tight. "I wasn't trying to get him killed."

"I don't think you would try to kill him," Maria said and Sam hated the way she made it sound more actively like his fault. "But I do think that you think of yourself more than your brother."

"Of course I think of myself!" Sam said."I can't do much about my brother if I'm lying dead in a gutter somewhere." Dead. Like that man he left lying in a Cartagena alley.

Maria frowned, her brows creased, but she looked more worried than angry.

Sam slumped forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"And what happens on the day that it is Nathan lying dead in the gutter?" Maria asked quietly.

"That would never happen!" Sam said more aggressively than he meant to.

Maria sighed. "Can you be sure of that, Samuel? You know Nathan would follow you to Hell and back if you asked him."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Are nuns allowed to say that?"

"I just did," she said wryly. "But I trust you see my point."

Sam looked away. Because he did see her point. He saw it all too well. And he didn't know what to do with the guilt and the anger building up in his chest.

"You can't keep dragging him in your wake, Samuel. He's not cut out for this kind of life."

Sam scowled. "Then he can leave." Sam said. "I won't stop him."

"Perhaps not physically," Maria said.

"What does that mean?" Sam demanded. "Look, I'm not holding Nate back from doing anything he wants to do. The kid has more freedom than any fifteen year old I know. Hell, he's got more freedom than I had at that age. There's no one stopping him from doing what he wants." The words sounded hollow and defensive, even to Sam.

Maria looked like she was thinking carefully about what she said next. "If he did tell you he wanted to leave, where would he go?" she asked.

Sam opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. Because the truth was, there wasn't anywhere for Nate to go and Sam knew it. He'd held that truth over Nate's head more than once to strongarm him. If Sam stopped to think about it, he'd been callous toward Nate, dragging his younger brother around the world at his whim. For Sam, it was liberating. No one to tell him what to do, where to go. For Nathan, it was just another set of rules he had to adhere to. Rules Sam made up as he went along.

"Nathan told me you have no other family," Maria continued. "You're all he has, Samuel. If Nathan left, would he turn himself in? Give himself up to some foster family somewhere?"

"No," Sam slumped against the table, resting his head on his arms. "Nathan would never do that. He's too proud."

"So are you," Maria said.

Sam sighed. "So am I," he agreed.

Maria was silent for a long moment.

Sam cleared his throat. "He told me he wanted to go home. Right before all...this." Sam stared at the kitchen cabinets so he didn't have to look at Maria. "I didn't listen. I know that I've dragged him through hell. I know that he hates the running and the hiding. I know things aren't right." Sam took a deep breath. He felt like he was in confession again. Eleven years old and having to tell Father Cavendish that he'd punched Finn in the face for calling him names. But this was so much more than a petty fight. "I know this is...my fault," Sam whispered in a strangled voice. "I just don't know how to fix it."

He closed his eyes, fighting the tears that he felt welling up. He was a man. And grown men didn't cry. But his little brother lay injured and hurting in a convent in a foreign country all because he'd put him in danger. Half of Sam wanted to admit it and apologize and promise Nate they'd go home. The other half wanted to blame Nate for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, for not being tough enough, for not adjusting. Sam didn't know how to reconcile what he felt.

Then a hand rested on his shoulder and he opened his eyes to Maria's kind face. "Then tell Nathan," she said. "Tell him that you are sorry. Tell him that you love him, Samuel."

Then she lifted her hand and walked away, her footsteps near silent on the worn wooden floorboards.

Sam buried his face in the crook of his arm and closed his eyes. He didn't know who to trust or what to believe anymore. His brother was hurt and he had blood on his hands. The only thing he did know was that he didn't trust himself.

* * *

Nate came to slowly. It was dark. At first, he didn't know where he was. He was lying in bed in a dimly lit room, a single candle burning low on the mantel. Nate turned his head to the open window to see the last edges of pale blue fading from the sky and the stars coming out. A cool evening breeze drifted through the room.

He turned his head back toward the room and saw a woman in a nun's habit sitting beside the mantel, reading by the light of the candle. Was he back at St. Francis? But why would the nun be in his room while he was asleep? And why weren't there any other beds in the room? At St. Francis' he'd shared a room with eleven other boys. This room was too small. And he didn't recognize the nun.

Nate felt groggy, disoriented. He tried to sit up and was met with sharp pain in his right side. He put a hand to his side, only to feel bandages wrapped around his lower abdomen. He hissed through his teeth as the pain sharpened. The nun looked up with a gasp as Nate fell back on the bed. She hurried to his side, putting a cool hand against his forehead. There was relief written clearly in her warm brown eyes.

"_No te muevas, hijo_," she said gently, stroking Nate's hair. "_No te muevas. Descansas_."

Nate bit his lip as the memories rushed back to him. Cartagena. He was in Cartagena and he'd been shot. The last thing he remembered was Sam helping him walk, trying to get him to the convent. Sam!

Nate tried to sit up again, pushing through the pain, but the nun put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Sam!" Nate gasped. "Where's Sam?"

The nun looked at him for a moment like she didn't understand.

_Cartagena, right. Spanish, Nate. Spanish. _

He took a deep breath and tried again. "¿_Dónde…dónde está_ Sam?" he panted, still propped up on his elbows, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side.

He saw recognition in the nun's eyes and she nodded, pushing him back to the bed again. "_Voy a conseguir _Sam," she said gently. "_Descansas. ¿Entiendes?_"

Nate fell back on the pillows. "_Sí_." He closed his eyes and lay still, focusing on breathing, on anything but the pain in his side.

The nun hurried out of the room.

A moment later, the door burst open and Sam ran in, looking haggard and pale, his hair standing up every which way. Like it did when he ran his fingers through it. Like he did when he needed something to do with his hands because he didn't have a cigarette.

"Nathan!" Sam ran up to the bed and dropped, sitting heavily on the edge. "Nathan, you're awake! Thank God. You're alive." He grabbed Nate's hand, gripping it as if Nate might disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough.

Nate grimaced.

"Sorry," Sam backed off, letting go of Nate's hand. "Am I hurting you?"

"No," Nate lied. "Geez, Sam, you smell like a chimney."

"That's how you greet me after all this?" Sam asked. He sounded genuinely hurt, but he masked it with a guilty smile. "It's your fault, kiddo," he said, pulling an empty cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket. "I wasted all of these worrying about you, you know," he said.

A couple of weeks ago, Nate might've made the effort to look appropriately guilty, but now he was tired and he hurt and he didn't feel like humoring Sam. "Sorry," he said. "How long was I out?"

"Two days," Sam said quietly.

Nate's eyes widened. "Two days?"

"Going on three," Sam said as he looked away. He wasn't fast enough to hide the way his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. Sam had been thinking for two days. Two days without Nate. Two days stuck in his own head. And Nate knew better than anyone that Sam in his own head was never a good thing. Nate had no way to know which route Sam's guilt took - whether it would be to blame himself or try to flip the blame on his brother.

"Sam?" Nate whispered.

Sam looked back at him, a strange expression on his face, but he covered it with a half-smile. Nate wasn't sure in the uncertain candlelight, but he thought he saw the glimmer of tears in Sam's eyes.

"I'm glad you're awake, Nate," he said. But he didn't reach out to touch his brother this time.

"Yeah. Me too," Nate said, voice husky. He reached for Sam's hand on the covers at the same moment Sam stood up. Their fingers brushed, but Sam didn't stay.

"You need sleep, little brother," Sam said. He turned as if to walk away, then turned back and brushed Nate's hair off his forehead. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He walked out of the room and Nate didn't have the strength to call him back.

* * *

Translations:

_Quédate quieto - _sit/stay still

_No te muevas, hijo. __No te muevas. Descansas. - _Don't move, son. Don't move. Rest.

_Voy a conseguir _Sam. _Descansas. ¿Entiendes? - _I'll go get Sam. You rest. Understand?


	12. Stay Down, Kid

**Chapter Twelve:** **Stay Down, Kid**

Contrary to his promise, Sam wasn't in the room the next time Nate woke up, or the time after that, or the time after that. Nate spent his days slipping in and out of sleep, broken by visits from the doctor or the nuns to change his bandages and check his stitches. He spent his nights wide awake, his body exhausted, his brain whirling ninety miles a minute. He wondered where Sam was. Sometimes he cried, whether from the pain or sheer exhaustion, he was never sure.

Tonight it was Friday, or as near to Friday as Nate figured in his semi-drugged state. One week since the failed heist. One week since...since he'd been shot. His mind played an endless loop of the events of that night, over and over. The chase through the back alleys, the sensation of the bullet ripping flesh. The fact that he didn't yell because he was too surprised to yell. Because the shock stole his breath and it was all he could do to keep his feet and keep running, so he ran and he ran until Sam let him stop and he could react to the pain in his side and the blood on his clothes.

He replayed the moment Sam finally realized he'd been shot. The heart-stopping fear that Sam wouldn't turn around and look in time. That Nate wouldn't make it back to the convent. The hazy memory of Sam clutching him to his chest and...crying?

Nathan wasn't sure if that last bit was real or the product of his fevered imagination. In Nathan's fifteen years, he didn't remember ever seeing Sam cry, not for real. Not even at their mother's funeral. Because Sam had always tried to hold it together for Nate, pretend like everything was ok, let Nate cry on his shoulder. He'd caught Sam misty-eyed a few times, but he'd always dried his eyes and put on a smile for his little brother.

What Nate wouldn't do to see Sam's smile again. The real one. Not the guilty one. Not the one that meant he was covering for something he didn't want Nate to know. Not the tired one that meant Sam had no idea what was going on but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it.

Nate sighed as he stared up at the ceiling.

He never asked to get shot. Never asked for the constant, worried attention. In fact, he hated it. Hated the relief in everybody's voice when they talked to him, hated the soft words, the gentle gestures. He didn't want to hear that he was lucky, or that it was a miracle he survived. He didn't want to be reminded of his own mortality. He didn't want everybody to walk around like they were warding off the Grim Reaper.

He wanted to hear Sam tell him it was all right. He wanted Sam and his crazy schemes. He wanted to be plotting their revenge together, plotting a second heist together, anything as long as Sam was there.

He wanted his brother back.

* * *

Sam leaned over the porch railing of the convent and snuffed his last cigarette with a sigh. He'd gotten another pack in town a couple nights ago and it was gone already. If he wasn't careful he'd turn into one of those guys that smoked a pack a day.

Sam chuckled darkly. Hell, what did it matter if he _did_ turn into one of those guys? Between keeping up with Nate, smuggling Marisol out of the country, and dodging the police and their nosy questions, he figured he'd been through enough stress to merit the smoking. And there were worse habits he could pick up, like drugs or self-harm. Overall, a few cigarettes weren't going to kill him.

What was going to kill him was Nathan.

Or, more accurately, _he_ was going to kill Nathan if he wasn't careful. Maria was right. He hadn't been thinking enough of his brother. Because he figured Nathan was finally old enough to take care of himself. And he was. Sort of. When Sam wasn't taking him to gunfights for fun.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and stared up at the stars.

He needed a break from all this. From trying to be Nate's guardian, from trying to think for two people. From this town stained in blood. He needed some time alone. Nate would be safer for it. Besides, his brother was down for the count for the next few weeks - too long for Sam to stick around. Sam could feel it in his gut, gnawing at him every second of the day. He had to get out of Cartagena before he went crazy.

But first, he needed to talk to Nate. He'd been avoiding Nate for the past three days partially because Nate had spent most of the week sleeping and partly because his stomach churned every time he thought about what he needed to say to his brother. Because he knew Nate wouldn't understand what he had to do. But time was up. Sam couldn't wait any longer.

With another sigh, he turned around and walked inside.

Nate was awake when Sam walked into his room, propped up against his pillows. From the dark circles under his eyes, he hadn't been sleeping well. While he didn't look like death anymore, he still looked pale and tired. But he perked up as soon as Sam walked in. Sam ignored the pang of guilt that lodged in his chest.

"Hey there, kiddo," he said, coming to sit on the edge of Nate's bed.

"Sam! Where have you been?"

"Tying up loose ends," Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't want to tell Nate that those loose ends involved a certain dark-haired girl. "Making sure our tracks were covered," he said instead.

Nate looked at him accusatorily.

"It's not like I killed anyone or anything," Sam held up his hands defensively, the words immediately adding weight to his already guilty conscious. True, he hadn't seen Timon's henchman die, but he'd seen the blood. He'd seen how still the man was. Sam shook himself. It was self-defense. He was fine. He was telling Nate the truth. He hadn't killed anyone to cover their tracks. "I made sure the police won't be looking for us," he said. "We made a pretty big scene back at the warehouse."

Sam saw Nate's hand drift toward his side, an unconscious gesture, one Sam knew Nate would probably keep for years. There was an unspoken question in Nate's eyes, but the one he asked wasn't it.

"And the ring?"

"Recovered, actually," Sam said, glad to speak about a lighter topic. "The police caught Timon - hey, there's a smile - and recovered the ring and that other thing Timon had."

"It was a decoder," Nate said.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"I saw it in the warehouse. It's a decoder and the ring fits inside, like a key. Makes it work."

"What does it decode?" Sam asked.

Nate shrugged. "Dunno. Yet. But I'll find out. About the only thing they'll let me do right now is read anyway."

Sam chuckled. "You should like that then, right?"

"I can't _stand_ it," Nate said. "They won't let me up or out. I haven't gotten out of this damn room in a week, Sam!"

Sam swallowed hard, another arrow of guilt sticking into his chest beside the first one. Here he was, running around like there weren't any consequences to his actions while Nate lay in bed and suffered. Sam shook his head. It was another reason he had to go.

Out loud, he said, "You'll get to leave soon, I bet."

"Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"When I'm...well," Nate stumbled over the word, like it was hard for him to admit he wasn't well. "Can we go home? Please?"

Sam closed his eyes so he didn't have to meet Nate's blue-gray gaze. Because what he saw in that split-second was an open, honest, plea and _it made so much sense._ But Sam couldn't say yes. Because he didn't know where he'd be when Nate was well.

"Sam?" Nate asked, a note of dread in his voice.

"Nate, there's something I need to tell you," Sam said.

"No." The word was barely a breath, but it nearly broke Sam's heart. Nearly made him change his mind. "No, Sam, you're not -"

"I'm leaving, Nate," Sam blurted out before Nate could say it for him.

Silence.

Sam opened his eyes. Nathan had never looked smaller and more alone than in that moment, wearing the red and white raglan Sam had bought him and a baggy pair of Sam's sweatpants, the stark white of his bandages showing through a gap where his shirt slid up.

"So your promise meant nothing," Nate said.

"What?"

"Your promise. That night on the pier. You told me that we'd go far. Together, Sam. The Brothers Drake. Did that mean nothing to you?!" Nate shouted the last part.

"It meant everything to me!"

"Then why are you breaking it now?"

"I'm not breaking it!" Sam snarled. Without even realizing it, he was up and grabbing a fistful of Nathan's shirt, yanking him up until he was half-off the bed.

"Sam," Nate gasped, hand to his side.

Sam held him there, fist tangled in Nate's shirt, anger rolling through him. Anger that Nate would question him. Anger that he put Nate in danger. Anger that Nate was holding him to a promise he'd lightly tossed out on a pier two years ago. Sam found that he had a sudden, overwhelming urge to hit something. Someone.

"Sam, you're hurting me," Nate said, teeth clenched.

Sam blinked and focused on Nate again. What he saw in his brother's eyes chilled him to the bone. He saw fear. Fear of himself. It was the last piece of proof Sam needed. This was one decision he wasn't changing his mind on. Nathan was better off without him.

He let go of Nate's shirt, letting Nate collapse back against the pillow. Nate grunted as he settled, eyes closed for a minute as he composed himself.

"Everything I've ever done, I've done for you," Sam said. He stood up. "Every promise, every sacrifice." He backed slowly away from the bed, toward the door. "I hurt you, Nathan, and I don't ever want to do that again. So I'm making you a new promise tonight. A promise to keep you safe. A promise to find you again when I can do that. But right now, I have to go."

Sam stopped when his back hit the door.

"No, wait," Nate said, desperate, uncertain.

Sam turned around, put his hand on the doorknob.

"Sam!"

Sam turned his head, so he could see Nate out of the corner of his eye. "Goodbye, Nathan."

Sam opened the door and walked out, pulling it shut sharply behind him. He leaned back against the door, eyes closed as he took a minute to compose himself. He heard Nate scramble out of bed on the other side. He heard his brother's pitiful cry as he hit the floor and imagined Nate lying in a heap, clutching at his side, teeth grit in that face of grim determination only Nate could make.

_Don't hurt yourself, Nathan. Don't do it. Just stay there. Dammit. Stay down, kid._

Sam felt tears well up in his eyes and he almost opened the door.

He heard Nate cry out again, another fall.

His hand strayed to the knob.

Nate would find a way to crawl to the door even if it killed him. Which was exactly why Sam had to do what he was about to do.

The doorknob was cold in his palm.

The words stuck in his throat. _I love you, Nathan._

He heard Nathan's sob on the other side - "Don't leave me, Sam."

Sam took his hand off the knob and walked away.

* * *

Nate grit his teeth against the pain and curled up on the floor.

"Sam," he whispered, the sound strained.

Tears stung his eyes as he tried to stand up and fell again, pain shooting from his hip and down his leg. He stiffened against it, levered himself to his hands and knees. Crawled across the floor until his body gave out on him and he collapsed again, just out of reach of the door.

"Don't leave me, Sam," he begged. He knew Sam was there. Knew he could hear him.

He saw the shadow of Sam's feet under the door. Saw them shift. Sam was about to run. Nate felt something constrict in his chest. Sam was going to run and leave him here, in Cartagena. Alone. Stranded.

What happened to the Brothers Drake? Why was Sam breaking his promise? Sam said it was because he wanted to keep Nate safe, but Nate didn't buy it. Sam hated being tied down, always had. And now Nate was the biggest thing tying him down.

All because of a wound he didn't ask for.

Nate felt the pain well up in him, both physical and emotional, a fountain he knew he couldn't stem. If he didn't let it out, it would consume him. He did the only thing he could. He screamed.

* * *

Maria came running as soon as she heard the scream. She had seen Samuel go to Nathan's room earlier and guessed that Samuel had made his choice. And he'd chosen to walk out. Maria fought to keep the tears from her own eyes as she ran down the hall to Nathan's room. Sam was nowhere in sight. Maria opened the door to find Nathan lying on the floor, one hand holding the bandage at his hip, a red stain creeping across the white again. His face was pale and there were marks on his lips, as if he'd bitten them. His free hand was clenched into a fist so hard she could see blood well up under his fingernails.

Maria knelt by his side.

"Oh Nathan," she said, as she gently lifted the boy into her arms so that he was sitting up. He fell against her, utterly exhausted, those blue-gray eyes swimming in tears.

"It's alright to cry, _hijo_," she said. "_Llora hasta que no tengas mas lagrimas_," she whispered. [Cry until you have no more tears.]

And, like he'd been waiting for permission, Nathan let the tears fall, sobs wracking his whole body. Maria stroked his hair, like he was a child. And really, that's all he was, she thought. The boy was barely fifteen years old, stranded in a foreign country, injured, hurting, and abandoned by his brother at the moment he needed him most.

The worst part was, Samuel didn't understand Nathan's dependence on him. It was clear that Nathan looked up to Samuel, no matter how much they argued or bickered. Nathan believed Samuel. Believed that he'd always have his back, believed that he'd always take care of his little brother. Until he didn't.

Samuel saw it as a sacrifice. Leaving his brother behind so that he didn't get hurt. The noble course of action in a problem that had no easy solution.

What Samuel didn't see was the gaping wound he left when he walked away. And it wasn't the bullet wound in Nathan's side. Given time, that would mend and the boy would walk away with no more than a scar. But the wound to his heart might never heal and that was why Maria held him now. To let him know that he wasn't alone. To hold together the pieces of Nathan that were left.

The scruffy boy who'd walked into her convent all those nights ago was gone. What became of him now was all up to Nathan.

Maria held Nathan closer as his tears soaked her shoulder.

* * *

Translations:

_Llora hasta que no tengas mas lagrimas - _Cry until you have no more tears.


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Nate felt the familiar pang in his side that told him he was pushing himself too hard again. His breath hitched and his stride faltered as he ducked around a nearby corner and let himself slow. He put a hand to his right side, feeling the raised scar through his t-shirt as his breathing returned to normal. Nate leaned back against the wall behind him and pulled the wallet out of his back pocket to look at his find. He flipped it open one-handed.

"_Meirda_!" he cursed, the Spanish coming near second-nature now.

The wallet was empty of cash - just a few plastic credit cards, a buss pass, and an American driver's license. Stupid tourist. Nate tossed the wallet into a puddle across the street and slid down the alley wall until he was sitting on the cobbled street, knees drawn up to his chest. He tilted his head back and stared up at the narrow strip of blue sky between the roofs.

Three weeks. Three weeks since he'd left the convent. Four weeks since Sam left him. Five since the failed heist. Months since anything in Nate's life had gone even remotely the way he wanted.

His stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts. He needed to find some food. He dug around in the satchel slung over his shoulder and came up empty handed. His own wallet was empty. All except for a piece of paper. A sheet so worn and folded that the letters hastily scrawled on it in pencil were near illegible, but Nate had them memorized now. A letter. A letter to Maria explaining why he left the convent. But he'd never delivered it. How could he after the way he'd treated her? He still felt guilty for leaving. But at the same time, he'd known he couldn't stay.

It wasn't that he didn't like Maria. In fact, he found himself drawn to the woman. She'd offered him a place at the convent after Sam left until he could figure out what he wanted to do with himself. But as soon as he'd been able to get up and walk around, he disappeared. He couldn't force himself on her generosity like that. Nate had always been resourceful, able to take care of himself at a young age. Except for Sam, he'd never had anyone he depended on and he wasn't about to start that now.

Especially not after - Nate swiped angrily at the moisture in the corner of his eye - not after Sam left. Sam had gotten tired of having a dependent. Nate didn't want to risk another guardian leaving him. So, if he took care of himself from here on out, he'd never have to worry about anyone leaving again.

But taking care of yourself in a foreign country where you had no name, no contacts, and no money was a lot harder than Nate bargained for. Not to mention he already had to watch out for the police and anyone connected to Timon. Timon himself was still in jail. Nate had been keeping tabs on him just to be safe. But he still couldn't help the paranoia that rose up in his chest anytime he was scrutinized by someone who looked even remotely like a member of Timon's gang. Even though Nate was reasonably certain they'd all lay low for a while, he didn't want to run up against one of the gang.

He looked back down at the letter in his hand as his stomach growled again. The convent had food. Lots of food. And it wasn't guarded or even locked up. Nate felt guilty thinking about it, but really, he could steal food from the convent without anyone even noticing.

And, he could leave the letter for Maria.

Nate stood up and turned to walk away, then looked back at the wallet lying half-open in the mud. He sighed and picked it up, carefully tucking it into his satchel.

On the way to the convent, he dropped it off in the police station mailbox, with a note that it had been lost. They could get the tourist's name off his license and hopefully get him his cards back. Then Nate slipped through town and headed up the hill.

He waited on the hillside until the sun sank behind the buildings in Cartagena, then worked his way up the crest of the hill until he reached the convent. He snuck around to the back porch. After making sure no one was on the porch, Nate climbed the rail and slipped inside. The nuns would be at their evening prayers right about now, which meant the rest of the convent would be virtually abandoned. Still, he was cautious as he tiptoed down the silent halls, eyes searching every hallway for the best hiding place, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of anyone coming.

He made it to Maria's room without a hitch. None of the room doors were ever locked, so Nate had no trouble getting in. He looked around the small room for a minute, taking in the spartan furnishings. Besides a bed and chest on one side of the room, the only other furniture was a small writing desk and a chair. Nate walked up to the desk and pulled the letter out of his satchel. He held it there, hand hovering over the desk for a long minute, wavering. Should he leave the letter? What would Maria think of him? What did she think of him already? Would his simple words be enough?

The paper trembled in his fingers and he realized he was shaking. He took a deep breath and dropped the note on the desk before he could change his mind. Just as he turned to walk away, a flash of color on the edge of the desk caught his eye. He paused and turned back. A crumpled piece of paper sat at the bottom of a stack of letters on the corner of Maria's desk. With baited breath, Nate shifted the letters and pulled out the colorful paper.

It was the flyer advertising for the Drake exhibit at the museum. The same one Sam had shown him all those nights ago. Nate felt his stomach somersault. He opened the flyer to see the picture of the ring. And another picture. A picture that hadn't meant anything before. A picture of the decoder.

Nate flipped to the front page of the flyer again. The exhibits were still going to be in the museum for another couple of weeks. If he could get into the museum, do some snooping, he could probably -

Nate's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall outside.

Dammit! Someone was coming!

Nate looked around the room. There was only one other way out besides the door and that was the window. He shoved the flyer into his satchel and scrambled over to the window. He undid the shutters and vaulted over the sill just as he heard the room door open. He landed hard on the ground outside, the landing sloppy. He bit back a yelp of pain as his ankle twisted under him. Above him, he heard a soft exclamation of surprise. Without wasting a second, Nate scrambled down the hill and behind a nearby bush where he dropped to the ground and lay, panting. He caught a glimpse of a woman in a nun's habit peering out the window in the fading light. After a moment, she withdrew and closed the shutters.

Nate picked himself up out of the grass and limped into town.

It was only as he got back into Cartagena proper that he realized he hadn't gotten anything to eat. But that could wait, he thought as he pulled the flyer out of his satchel and headed toward the museum. For now, he had a building to case.

* * *

As Maria turned away from the window where she watched a shadowy figure disappear into the night, she caught sight of a crumpled sheet of paper folded on her desk. She walked back over and picked it up, smoothing it open. The words were faded, written in pencil and smudged with repeated handling, but she still heard them in his voice when she read them:

_Monja Maria, _

_Gracias. For everything. I'm sorry I didn't stay. I'd just be too much trouble. I don't belong in Cartagena and once I get some money, I'll be gone. I wanted to say goodbye in person, but I think it would have hurt my resolve. I'm sorry about Sam. I'm sorry for the mess we made. Maybe one day I'll come back and visit. I won't get shot next time, I promise. _

_Nathan Drake_

* * *

**And there you have it, dear readers. We've come to the end of my little side story. Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!**


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